


Wash Away The Sun

by jawnslulluby21



Series: The Elf and the Mage [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 47,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawnslulluby21/pseuds/jawnslulluby21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU<br/>John is a Plains Elf while Sherlock is a Silver Mage who makes a spontaneous decision to kidnap him and take him back to the land of water and caverns...Sherlock's land...where Sherlock is a magician of some repute. John isn't a good captive. COuld be a long story ....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

What a warm and dry day it was in the meadowlands of Dore. After a harsh winter and a cold spring that saw an immeasurably intolerant amount of rain and damp, the mid week morning dawned like a gem, complete with sun and little or no cloud in the blue sky. John of the Wattson yawned and stretched, stiffening his legs as he sat half dozing in the rocker on his front porch. He was at once guilty and happy to be resting after several weeks of being inside working on his loom and trying to keep himself entertained with the herbs and flavours he had collected before the snows. He was anxious to check his fields and gardens but not so anxious that a nap hadn't been in order before he walked out past his little barn, housing his one cow and several goats. towards the flat lake along the bank where his house was built. Earlier, he had smelled the aroma of the citradelia, the lemon yellow spring flowers that grew in abundance only this time of year and he was mentally ticking off how many he would need to make some parfum for the councilman's wife. No doubt 2 bunches would do, especially if John mixed the petal juices with some wax and honey scents. Well, time was not standing still for him, so the young Woods Elf laced his boots and shrugged on a heavy jacket with a hood. As an afterthought, he grabbed an apple from the barrel that stood by the door and slipped it into his pocket.   
John's journey to the flat lake was without incident and within minutes, he was gathering bunches of the heady smelling flower in his large net bag, concentrating on making sure the flower roots were still attached for he could always use those for a thickening agent on the room scents he made. Using every piece and petal of plants was a talent he had honed since his grandfather taught him how to use his gift of Scents. The people in his village were grateful and flocked to his little shop in the back of his cottage to be tested and smelled so John could make a unique scent for them. After all, John thought, everyone had a Scent. He plucked the flowers and arranged them in his netting and hummed as he worked, feeling the lazy low sun on his shoulders, warming him through his woolen cloak.   
Snap!  
John froze, hands mid way in the small bed of now thinned citradelia. Was it a mere animal? A squirrel perhaps, scampering around looking for nuts? Or maybe just a rabbit or a careless footfall of one of his friends from the village...John swallowed and pulled his netting tight, then brushed off his knees and started towards the path for home. He did not look back but the pull to do so was strong. Eyes straight ahead, he told himself, starting to pick up speed and a ball of relief in his throat as he saw the barn ahead. Almost home.

Steely eyed and grim, the Mage's Warrior Guard watched the little elf darting among the low scrubby trees and grasses that were brown and bent with melted snowfall. He had his orders and knew what he had to do but he was not sure, for the hundredth time since he had galloped out of Meridian, why exactly he had been assigned to bring this ...this Plains Elf back to his Lord and Majesty. The elf did not notice the man sitting quietly on his war steed, the horse huge and possessing not only speed but sure footedness in the treacherously steep mountains from whence they had both came. It was just as well. His capture would be swift and silent. No need to call attention upon himself, to start a war of sorts if the elves here objected. He nudged his horse forward and suddenly, under the broad fetlocked hoof of his steed, a snap of a branch. Gregory stopped and willed himself to blend in with the trees. The elf had heard it. Gregory knew he had just by the minute pause of his tasking. He had heard and was weighing his options. And there was no way Gregory could let his prize slip away. After three days of waiting, this was the first opportunity Gregory had had to capture the elf outside of his home.  
John hurried up the small rise, keeping his barn in sight, willing his feet to move move move as he went forward. Did he hear hoofbeats behind him? And if he did, who could it be? No, it was his imagination playing tricks on him. He did not turn but threw his netting bag with his flowers and stems down on the ground and he was running now, a sob catching in his throat! Suddenly, he was floating above the ground, feet kicking and trying to scream as he was roughly pulled into the saddle in front of a man who smelled like battle and sleeping rough. His hands were around John's waist and one hand covered his mouth, capturing the scream of terror from the elf and rendering him mute and helpless as they rode away from the comfort of the house and barn that John called home.  
John tried to kick and struggle but it was of no use and the solid man in armour and chain mail that sat behind him tightened his grip on him until his arm felt like it was cutting the air from his very lungs. John stopped fighting and sat still and the pressure decreased. The hand over his mouth quietly slipped away and John breathed in the air and opened his eyes to see the ground below him moving along very fast, the grass a withered brown blur as they rode hard towards the foothills.  
John was terrified. He had no idea of who his captor was or where he was going. When he was younger, he had listened to the stories of his grandparents who spun yarns about a far away place in the mountains, where giant spiders roamed and a city of granite was encased into the mountain and used huge gates to keep enemies away. John had always wondered if it was true. COuld this be where he was bound? And if so, why?  
"If you take me home, right now, I will pay you handsomely." John thought his voice sounded small and squeaky but got no reply from the man behind him. "In fact, I will reward you for letting me go and ...and escorting me back to my-"  
A warning hand shot out and smacked his head hard enough for John to see stars. The man murmured something in a strange language, one that John had never heard before. So his fate was sealed. Perhaps he was to be sold as a slave? Some places, he thought, still did that. And if that was the case, he was doomed then. Panic rose in him and he thrashed against the man, trying to kick and claw and bite his way out.  
Gregory had had enough of the elf's foolishness. If he kept this up, then the road back to Meridia was indeed going to be long and arduous. A well placed kick from the elf's heel made Gregory's shin smart, even under his battle pants, and then the elf had bitten, hard, on the exposed skin of the back of his hand where he had taken his riding glove off. He swore, and instinctively struck out, hitting the elf again, harder this time the blow made of pain and reaction. His prisoner was suddenly still and sagged against him, neither moving nor talking. Gregory had a pang of guilt but then again, it would be better this way for the elf was silent and perhaps would be until they made camp for the night.

John rubbed at his aching head and stared sullenly at his captor. Out of spite, the elf had refused any offer of food from the big man and instead sat with his back against the tree on which he was tethered like a horse. One strong loop of rope was around his neck and the other around his feet and hands. It was uncomfortable but not so much that he couldn't sleep a bit. The man ate hungrily, devouring a piece of cheese and some hard tack, then dug some chocolate out of his pack and ate that as well. John's nose twitched at the smells. His head prevented him from being hungry. He had awoken feeling quite sick and he was sure he would be unable to keep down any of the offered foods.  
The elf watched as the man finished up, took a swig of water from his large canteen, and then threw his blanket down against a small set of rocks facing the fire. He did not look at John but instead just laid back, knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. He whistled softly and John wished he had something to throw at him, this man who looked like the very picture of contentment.  
Gregory knew the elf was watching his every move. He felt a pang of regret for hitting him so hard earlier and yet, his afternoon into evening ride had been quiet and pleasant with nobody trying to bite or kick him. It was just as well he thought. The elf was trouble. He should have brought with him someone else, maybe RIchard, his second in command to help him. Hindsight, however, was useless.  
The elf coughed and Gregory looked his way, noting that he was shivering. He gathered a blanket and threw it at the elf, who just glared at it without picking it up. "Suit yourself" Gregory said, going back to his whittling. He was aware of a flurry of movements in a little while and looked over as the elf was trying to use the blanket to cover as he settled in for sleep. :We have a long way to go, you and me, so best you use that to keep warm." Gregory sighed and closed his eyes, hand on his sword hilt, half of him ready to spring if need be, the other half trying to sleep.


	2. Journey Through the Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Gregory continue their journey to Meridia and along the way, they have an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am totally a newbie at this so please...if you have any suggestions to make this better, or want me to write something to happen, please let me know...otherwise, here we go...

Gregory awoke before dawn. He hadn't really slept, nor did he ever when he was riding hard and lean. He had tended to the fire several times during the night, and each time he checked on the Elf. Upon 2 of those occasions, Gregory had tested the ropes that held the elf securely. He could not imagine what would happen to him if he were to return without the Elf.

"Oy!" Gregory nudged the Elf with a booted foot. 

"Go away. Get lost. Leave me alone." The Elf turned and scrunched up his legs even further underneath his body. Gregory scowled and nudged him again, this time with more insistence. "Knock it off. You can ride on ahead. Wherever you're taking me....I am staying right here and--"

Gregory pulled his captive up by his bound wrists and with clever fingers undid the knot holding the Elf to the tree. The action took not 3 seconds and once again the Elf was secured, the rope now holding his wrists in front of him while his feet were free to walk, no longer burdened by the ropes. Gregory knew there was a language barrier between the 2 of them but he pantomimed going to the bathroom and pointed to a copse of trees within sight. The Elf scowled but shrugged and walked over, back turned towards Gregory. A small smile played on Gregory's lips. His Master was not going to have an easy time with this one. 

John urinated and then glanced back to where his guard was standing. John could smell the water, so close to them, and longed to at least go wash his face and hands. He looked hopeful and approached the bigger man, pointing to the small bank and pantomiming washing up. The man grunted and nodded then pulled a netting bag of soap out of his saddlepack. This he threw at John and went back to tending the fire and placing an old metal pot on the coals. John presumed it was for tea. Well at least he was that civilized!

The water, though cold from a spring, felt like heaven to John. Although his people were not inclined to splash around in the water--John could not swim a stroke--they enjoyed a bath and a scrub and a good wash every night, and sometimes twice or three times a day. The soap he was using was not particularly sweet smelling (John had sniffed it cautiously, like everything he did before using) but it lathered so John placed his cloak aside as best he could and scrubbed up his neck, face, and as much of his arms as he could reach. He chanced a glance behind him but saw no captor, so he pulled his pants and small pants down quickly and gave his privates a quick scrubbing, drying them with a cloth he had found in the pocket of his cape. It was not adequate but he knew it would have to do. 

As he walked back to the fire, he wondered not for the first time of why he was taken and where he was going. They were in the foothills of the Black Mountains, of that much he knew. None of his people ever had ventured out of the hollow and plain to seek any type of companionship with others. If people wanted to come see them, that was all well and good, and people did and stayed there and helped to make the community grow and thrive. John had seen many a peddler and a trader in his life but none from here, none from the Black Mountains, where it was said lived the giant spiders of Ellis and a race of people so barbaric that they often fought in large stadiums to their deaths. John swallowed hard and sat down suddenly. Was he going to some city to be used as bait or a target in some arena?? He was suddenly sick to his stomach and even the smell of what his captor was cooking was enough to make him gag.

Gregory looked askance at the Elf. The Elf looked sick, and was holding his stomach with his bound hands. As Gregory was preparing a small breakfast, he had heard the Elf splashing around in the spring but had left him his privacy. He was convinced that the Elf would not run. Now this, this was a twist. What was wrong with him, Gregory wondered. He looked almost translucent, the colour from his broad face fading as he looked with big eyes at Gregory. He was saying something but Gregory shook his head to tell him he did not understand. At that, the Elf grew even more distressed.

":You cannot be as stupid as you look! I am asking you if I am to be used as some kind of target, To be killed or even...EATEN!!!" With that last word, a few tears sprang up in the Elf's panicked eyes. The captor held out a hand to John but John slapped it away. He leaped up to pace but came face to face with the man who had a very dangerous look on his face. John stopped and submissively looked down. There was nowhere to run and even if he tried, he thought the consequences from this man would be dire.

Gregory shook the small Elf, hands on his narrow shoulders and face firm. He pushed him down again and thrust a piece of biscuit with some cheese on it into his hand, but the Elf just looked at it with a faint smirk of disgust and handed it back. Gregory thought that if the Elf did not eat, he would be weak or even worse, sick by the time they got to Meridia, and then, oh then his Master would be pissed. With a sigh of frustration, Gregory shoved the food back into the Elf's hand and waited, then pantomimed for him to eat it. The Elf drew it up to his mouth, sniffed it suspiciously and drew it away again, eyes darting towards the ground. Very well. Hold it in your hand, Gregory thought. Hold it there until the cheese melts and the bread is stale. He stuffed his cheeks with his own breakfast, not giving the Elf another look.

John's hand trembled but he willed himself not to gag or throw up because the man looked to be in no mood to contemplate any type of THAT. He looked down at the offering and took a small bite, the bile nearly rising in his throat but he forced it down and tried to remain as still as possible so that his stomach could settle. The man looked at him and then nodded, clearly pleased, John thought, that he was trying to eat. A metal cup was held out to him and John took it tentatively using both hands because of course he was still bound. John motioned with a head nod towards his hands and held them up, then looked the man straight in the eyes with a pleading half grimace.

"No." Gregory shrugged and ignored the Elf, finishing his breakfast and washing it down with the green tea he had made. He did not want to look to see the Elf's reaction because he knew sure enough that it would be akin to whatever he was thinking when he first came back from making like a duck in the spring. What nonsense and gibberish were the words he had spoken. Gregory thought that if he had to listen to that language every day he would go daft or mad or something. He snuck a glance at his captive and saw the Elf was drinking the tea. Good. There were some herbs in it that would make him drowsy, given to Gregory by his Master for just such a reason. Gregory did not want to have to hit him again.

John put the cup down with some alarm. His captor looked over, surprised and kind of like 'oh no here we go again.' John glared at him and pointed to the cup. He mimicked a sleeping form with his hands under his chin and his eyes closed, then snapped open his eyes to see a small grin on his captor's face. There were essences of mountain poppies and Chamomile in the tea! In the leaves! Which he had drank! So they were going to drug him eh? Convinced now that he was to be sold as a slave, thrown into the ring to die, or be someone's target, John's shoulders slumped forward and he ran a hand over his face. SO be it then. He would never see his home or family or friends again. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Gregory paid no mind to the Elf's histrionics, instead preparing his horse for the long ride ahead. He knew of a cave they could stay for this night, and if he rode hard, without many stops, they would be home by the next evening. He cinched his saddle and then packed and rearranged his bags, all the while making sure not to pay any attention to the Elf who was still crouching by the kicked over embers of the fire. Gregory finished with his preparations and then turned to the Elf.  
"Come on. I'll put you into the saddle. You can ride in front of me so there's no shenanigans."  
The Elf did not move. Gregory tried again, this time impatiently slapping a palm against his leg. "Move it! I wanna make the mid range by tonight!" Still nothing. In fury and frustration (this Elf was really testing his patience), Gregory strode over to the Elf and pushed against his shoulder. The Elf....fell over....eyes closed...."Hey. HEY!" Gregory slapped the Elf's face a bit, but there was nothing. He was...sleeping....too many potent leaves, Gregory thought in alarm. If the Elf was harmed....He placed his fingers against the pulse spot in the Elf's neck. Strong and steady. Well, he was at least in no physical distress. He supposed he had used too many. His master would have calculated the weight of the person who was getting the tea but Gregory did not know how to do any of that. SIghing, he picked up the Elf and like a rag doll, placed him on the saddle, towards the front of the pom, then mounted and adjusted his legs to prop up the Elf so he was sleeping against Gregory's chest. "Don't we look like a fine how to do," he muttered. Gently he kicked his heels into this steed's sides and they were galloping off towards the scrubby brush that led to the final tree line.

John was in a boat. He had never been in a boat in his life but there he was, on the ocean no less, in a dinghy with his sister and her wife. They were naked. John frowned. He held an oar but it did nothing against the swell of the current. Back and forth. Back and forth. Up and down. Up and down. Someone was saying something, but his sister's lips were not moving and she was backing away, on the boat, just disappearing like she had never been there and her face was one of a cloud's and Jenna's face was also cloud and John held his oar tightly so tightly to himself but he could not move just the water...up and down..back and forth...he was riding the waves and he was alone.

With a start, John woke up. Instead of being on a boat, he was on a horse. It was nearly afternoon judging from the sky, and John had to pee so badly his stomach hurt. He sat up, raising his hands towards his mouth, but realized unhappily that they were still tied. John reached towards the man's arm that held him around his waist and tapped. He felt the man shift, realized he was looking down at John so John looked up, moving his head and trying to see the man. With an impatient glance, the man dismissed him and spurred his horse faster. John groaned. Again he tapped the man's arm but got no response.  
Please, you stupid son of a bitch! I need to pee and if you don't stop I will wet my britches right here and now and YOU will have a soggy fucking saddle!" 

Gregory drew back a bit and saw the Elf's face, dark and almost red. He was angry about something; Gregory supposed that perhaps he was mad that he had missed much of their day. Again the impatient tapping on his arm and Gregory was just going to swat the Elf one when he realized that perhaps..the Elf had to stop...for a break... Gregory gave the Elf a curt nod and slowed his horse so they could get off. The Elf was squirming impatiently and Gregory hid a mirthful smile. He was amusing this one. 

John slid from the horse and landed on the ground, on his knees. He felt the pain resonate through his kneecaps and up his thighs but he gave it no mind. He stood up slowly, then hurried to an outcropping of rock that hid him and with trembling hands undid his pants and slid his small pants out of the way. Oh that was heavenly, he thought as his bladder emptied against a rock. The tea had been too strong, he surmised and he had been out the better part of the day. He wiped his hands on his trousers and turned to see where his captor was, then stopped, listening to what was behind him. He could not understand what they were saying. but 2 different voices were speaking words he did not know to his captor and by the guttural tone, not they were not friendly words. John crouched closer and peeked around the cropping to look. There were 2 men, he had been right, who had his captor pinned down and were twiddling his captor's sword. John guessed that they had attacked his captor when his captor was peeing, taking him by surprise. He watched as one of the men pulled up his captor's armour and poked at his stomach with the tip of the sword. His captor looked furious. John was not sure what was being said, but John knew only that there was an element in safety with his captor and the 2 men who were holding him looked mean and rough. The Gods only knew what would happen to a simple Elf like himself in the hands of those 2. John looked around and found a sizeable rock that he could throw. He had excellent aim. Always took first place in the basket toss during Carnival. He readied his aim....and THREW!

"Christ! Habub. are you ok?"  
"Apparently not you dumb sod. Looks like he's been thrown out." With a sly and fierce push, Gregory knocked his sword out of the man's hands and leaped up, now sinewy and muscular even with his armour thrown back. His face, he knew held a dark expression. As he picked up his sword, he caught sight of the Elf peeking around the outcropping of rock and he let himself grin just a little. Perhaps he would put on a show for the Elf. "Now. What were you 2 saying about skinning me and leaving me for dead? I think that's your role in all of this." With a terrific burst of strength, Gregory gutted the one man on the ground and with sword still bloody and adorned with bits of intestine and tissues, cut off the other man's head cleanly at the neck. The head, wearing a startled expression, rolled to land near the Elf. Gregory nodded to himself and cleaned his sword using his sword linen, then looked around for his captive. A small sound of rock settling reached his ears before he put two and two together to realize his prize was running away.  
"Shit!" With a scramble, stepping over the 2 dead attackers, Gregory followed in pursuit satisfied that the Elf couldn't have more than a 3 lead head start on him. Sure enough, the Elf was finding it difficult to pick his way through the rocks and brush and Gregory caught him easily. He held him by the cloak and pulled him up towards his horse.

"NO!!! NO!!!" John was uselessly kicking out, trying to get away, in shock and horrified that his captor killed the men. He hadn't been sure that his captor was a beast until now, until this had happened and he was trying to wrap his thoughts around it. John had thrown the rock to help out this man but this man had taken 2 lives so easily and without a care. Now John was sure he was going to end up in an arena against some bloodthirsty villain who would cut his throat and let him bleed out. Panic made him blind to the annoyed look on his captor's face and he was rewarded for his struggling with a strong hand to his windpipe. He was being choked. Raised off the ground in fact and held in front of his captor who had a less than charitable look on his face. John stopped struggling and went limp, accepting the fact that he was going to be thrown on the horse again and carried away towards his fate. It was either cooperate or die, he thought. And he wasn't ready to die just yet.

"Good." Gregory let go of the Elf and with one hand on his arm, pulled his captive up to his horse who was waiting, nibbling on some brownish grass. "We have some time to make up for." He practically threw the Elf up and roughly climbed up behind him. With one arm around his waist again he pulled on the reins and the horse began to climb up the worn path leading to the mountains.


	3. Gates of Stone

The 2 rode until it was nearly dark. John was amazed that the horse could find steady footing on their climb up, totally unaffected by sliding rocks and bits of brush that stuck out on the path. Every now and then he heard his captor say something in that unknown language all the while patting the horse's side. John wondered if the animal could see in the dark and if the horse was bred specifically to these types of situations. As John was musing, the man behind him began to draw up on the reins just a bit until the steed stopped and waited patiently. The man seemed to be looking for something, John thought, noticing how he had drawn up in the saddle, legs stiff to his sides with his feet raised in the stirrups. The man grunted and then dismounted, leaving John on the horse alone as he walked over to what looked like a solid piece of stone. In another second, the man ducked and was gone. John squinted trying to find him, trying to pick out an outline, but saw nothing. Just a blob of rock in the encroaching darkness.

Gregory was pleased as he lit a fuse stick and looked around him. The cave was empty, devoid of bears or hibernating skunks, and it would do for some shelter. He knew the night was bringing the cold and he did not want to be in the elements. There was also room for his horse inside. The trick he had taught her to dip and scrunch forward on her bended legs would come in handy to get through the opening for the cave. Happily, he turned and went out, leaving the fuse stick to burn so that there would be some light.

John waited until his captor came over to the saddle and then slid off and down to the ground. This time he landed better so as to not hurt himself and he heard his captor make some kind of a complimentary noise. John turned and let himself be led to the rock by the man holding his bound wrists. The rope had chafed his skin causing some welts to rise but John's biggest problem was where was he going and why. He knew nothng about the Black Mountains or the SPiders of Ellis--just what he'd heard from peddlers and tradesmen and if they weren't exagerrating nobody was. He knew that some of the exploits they'd spoke of were false, just brave tales to get people to think them heroes. But this was real enough and nobody was going to help him. John sighed and ducked at the entrance and then watched in amazement as his captor led his horse, who bowed enough to come through the low enclosure, into the cave as well. John smiled in spite of himself. The steed was not only good at climbing mountains, she was smart as well.

"This will be our last night of sleeping rough. I am not going to bother with a fire." Gregory looked down at the Elf and smiled. "I know you will be sad to learn there is no spring or pond or lake here, for you to do your bonny beautying up. Waste of time when we're on the road anyways. Here. Make yourself a cold sandwich. That's all I got. There's smoked venison and cheese. Some biscuits still edible." Gergory watched the Elf who was now curling up in a ball, holding his bound hands above his head and burying his face against his one shoulder. His legs crept up as well until he was folded into a small ball. Gregory sighed. "You know, I am not such a bad guy. You can't be running off. And if I hurt you when I choked you I didn't mean to. Just..you shouldn't try to run. My Master will kill me." Gergory pushed the Elf's foot with one of his own. The Elf did not respond. "Oh I see. If you don't see me, then I am not here, is that it? Hm. Fraid not." Gregory unwrapped a biscuit and made a decent sandwich with the cheese and venison. While he ate, he studied the Elf, or what he could see. What exactly did his Master want in this small version of the Elven variety? His hair was blondish, stained bright by the sun's rays, and unruly with cowlicks around his face and ears. His ears were pointed and large. His face was plain and golden also from the sun. He was physically small. Gergory was surprised at this since he recalled visiting the Northern Elves and finding them tall or taller than himself and he was no small man. Perhaps, he thought, Elves came in all varieties and besides, he was no expert. And if the Elf was going to try to starve himself, he had a good head start. More for me, he decided and made another sandwich, washing it down with water from his canteen.

At the sound of the swishing water in the canteen, John sat up and looked at his captor. He was more thirsty than hungry, but he did not wish to upset the man since he did not want to have his head seperated from his body nor did he want choked again. Or drugged. Still, the water made him realise how dry his mouth was and how thirsty he was. He held out his bound hands. "Please?"

Gregory stopped drinking and eyed the Elf. With a nod, he handed the canteen over and watched with a smirk as the Elf first ran a cloth over the drinking nozzle and then held it to his lips, but out of reach so nothing touched. The water flowed into his mouth and Gregory turned and threw down his sleeping blanket. The Elf nudged him and handed him the canteen and then curled into a tight ball again.

John tried to sleep but he found it hard. The odd stick that glowed making shadows dance on the walls of the cavern they were in was just one of the reasons. He had never seen anything like that before but he was sure that the man who was taking him somewhere into the mountains could not have invented it. His was more brawn than brain and surely this ...glow stick...was the work of a genius. John wondered if his captor was asleep, laying as he was on his bed roll, turned towards his horse, who was nibbling at some greens in the cave walls. He knew there was no escape but he tried to will himself to relax and try to at least close his eyes and get a few hours of slumber. It was a difficult task but he managed to sleep for a bit until...

 

"GET UP, ELF!!"

John moaned and rolled over, trying to understand through his foggy brain where he was and what he was doing. When he saw the man standing in front of him, all dressed in armour and ready to go, he groaned out loud. ANother day int he saddle, he supposed. John struggled to get up and when he did he fell forward. It was only through the quick actions of the man that he did not hit the cave floor and split his head open.

"You haven't eaten so you're weak." Gregory sighed imaptiently. He held on to John with one hand and got into his bag with the other. He grabbed some cheese and a wrapped biscuit and held it out. "Please. We have a long ride."

John stared and then finally nodded. He would need his strength if he were to try to make an escape before being imprisoned or sold as a slave. As he ate he watched his captor saddle the horse, and then lead him outside, the horse again doing the marvellous trick of bending to get through the entrance. John's nose smelled sulfur and phosphate and looked around. He honed in on the glow stick or whatever it was and was surprised to see that it was just aboout 5 centimetres long. It had burned through the night.

"Come on, Elf." Gregory called from outside the cave entrance. John sighed and wiped his hands on his very dirty pants, and ducked beneatht he rock cropping and waited while his captor placed him into the saddle and they were on their way.

Up up up the steep mountains they went, even when John wasn't sure they would be upright on such a precarious angle. The horse knew no fear and as long as they climbed up the path, the man behind him was relaxed and didn't even try to hold on to John. Occasionally, John would chance a look over the side and immediately feel sick to his stomach. He would close his eyes and hang on to the saddle horn not wishing to fall. Just when he thought they would not have room to ascend any longer, they began a downward climb of sorts. Mostly down, sometimes lateral. John was getting more and more anxious by the hoofbeat and wanted to scream in terror at what lay ahead of him. He somehow knew, though, that screaming would make his captor mad and right now, he little wanted to do that.

Gregory was pleased. The Elf was complacent and quiet and his horse, ah he could not ask for a better steed. She was getting her second wind now, knowing that the path she was taking them on would lead to the waterfall and behind that to her city, their city, where Gregory could present the Elf to his master, another successful mission. Now on a lateral stone path, his horse, (he called her Ciara) picked up speed and started to trot, bringing a small cry from the Elf. Gregory tightened his hold as a warning and the Elf was quiet but his body was rigid. Maybe he was afraid. Gregory had no idea what kinds of thoughts were in his head. They rounded the bend and were in front of the kneeling figure of Gileea, a rock figure cut from the mountain by Rock Trolls, in reverence to the Master's family. How long it had been there ...well, Gregory figured it had to have been forever.

John stared in wonder at the statue. It looked so alive, with dead eyes and clear features cut from the stone. Who had done such a thing? And why? He did not have long to look at it as they passed it on a clear gallop now, the horse sensing her stall and a feedbag full of oats and perhaps a warm rubdown by Gregory's squire. John's breathing became more rapid as he now saw and heard the thunderous water from the falls that lay ahead. The water made a grey curtain and John shivered as his shirt and pants became soaked. Were they to ride in the middle of it? John could see no path, no merger of grass or stone. He stiffened to the point of almost standing when the man behind him drew John hard and down against him and spurred the horse so that she was running into the falls and....John heard nothing but thunder as the water roared in front of them. They were behind the falls and on a narrow ledge like path that the horse easily traversed. It was amazing and John held his breath in awe and wonder. If he reached to the side (which he couldn't do well because of course his hands were tied in front  of him) he could have put his hand into the falling water. It was cool and damp inside the falls and John shivered as the cold leeched thorugh his wet clothing.

Just like that then they emerged from the falls and into murky afternoon sunlight. Ahead was another sight to take John's breath away. Carved into the rock and opening now with a slow grating sound were 2 of the biggest gates John had ever seen, almost reaching to the top of the small mountain that they rode beside. They were granite grey and carved with runes the like John had never seen before. He swallowed hard when he realised with dread that they were going to go through those very gates and his fate ...his fate lay behind them. It was all he could do not to try to wiggle free and run but instead he simply lay back against the hard body of his captor and pray to the Gods that he would not be killed or eaten by the savages who lived beyond the great gates. If this was to be his fate then somehow he would summon courage he did not know he had and use it to try to get back home again, to his people and to his house along the flat bottomed lake. He realized with no small amount of embarrassment that tears were rolling down his cheeks. Stifling a sob, John watched with wonder as the gates began to close, the city in front of him holding him permanent captive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise to actually get them inside the city of Meridia next chapter...and will John meet the Silver Mage for whom Gergory works for? Well...you will have to wait and see...


	4. The City Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets to know the city and meets his Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the support and kudos! It is sometimes difficult to find time to write but when you have it laid out in your head, it is nothing short of amazing when your fingers spell out the tapestry.

Meridia!

John swallowed hard and instinctively leaned back against the man behind him. If the man noticed, he did not do or say anything and John had a sinking feeling that the man was just too happy to be home, if this was indeed where he lived (and John was sure it was). The road, or rather street since they were now in the city, was wide and bordered by shops and businesses, the signs on them remaining a complete mystery to the Elf. The letters made no sense. It was as if this was a new alphabet invented by squirrels. John fought the rapidly rising bile in his throat and tried to take deep breaths of air. Where was he going on this horse with this man? They were trotting now instead of galloping and John held on to the pom with his bound hands. People who walked along the lane beside the road were turning to look at them, and some bowed just a bit, his captor acknowledging this because John could feel his body shift each time they passed one of such citizens. Was his captor royalty? Important? He seemed to be. So what did this mean for John? He had no idea.

They trotted past shops with banners above the roofs and in front of the walks. John couldn't help but be impressed  by the colours of the slate along the fronts and the meticulous care in the greenery by some of the front doors. It was so very different than his own city where things were so hodgepodge and dry, he thought. Dry and wooden and just..brown...and tan. Colours so vivid they made his eyes dance decorated the shutters and the trim of most of the buildings along their route. Some of the trim were painted or stained different colours so there was a pop of bright blue among the dark red or a purple sign on a yellow building. What manner of people lived here and celebrated colour like this? John supposed he would find out...that is, if he lived long enough...

"Impresive isn't it, Elf?" Gregory gave his captive a little squeeze around the waist and laughed when the Elf jerked forward from the contact. "Oh don't worry, You will get to explore a bit if my Master can trust you. But I don't think that will be for a while will it? First chance you get, you'll try to escape. Good thing it's not me who has to keep an eye on you in the palace." Gregory grinned as his mount turned the corner of the wide boulevard and the palace itself appeared in the distance. He heard the Elf gasp and his hands flew to his mouth as he rose up in the saddle to get a better view. Of course, the sheer black of the stone never ceased to amaze Gregory. It was an awesome sight in of itself but Gregory also knew that sorcery and magic kept it afloat from the groud, and it never moved one millimetre up...or one millimetre down. It was just always...the way it was...and had been for centuries.

Ciara was really moving now, abandoning the trot and going to full head on galloping. The Elf clung to the pom and tried to find some way to hang on with his legs; it was only Gregory's arm around the Elf's waist that kept him from sliding off and onto the rockway. Gregory heard the Elf start to whimper now and wondered what was wrong. He hated the language barrier but he supposed it couldn't be helped since Meridia had its own language that had originated centruies ago, with the druids who founded the city. Nowhere else in Middle Earth and beyond was their language spoken and it took a scholar many a day of hard study to figure it out and many years to learn how to speak it properly. Of course, his master the SIlver Mage would probably have a spell worked up to use on the Elf so the poor daft thing could understand. Gregory did not envy his captive. He knew how his Master was, and the difficult moods he sometimes had. And Gregory had no idea how or why his Master had chosen this Elf one so plain and headstrong, when he could have any one or any being at his fingertips just for the asking.

John could only gulp and watch as the castle came into focus. It seemed to be flying on the air, removed from the earth, in the space between sky and ground! He had never before seen anything so ..so...magical? Wicked? He wasn't sure which it was. They were fast approaching it though and with each steady thrum of the horse's hooves, John's heart lurched and his throat burned. He told himself he was not going to cry and clenched his fists in front of him, nails digging into his hands. Oh my Gods, he was so far from home and so alone! Was he to be taken to this ....place to be..killed? Enslaved? He knew not and the lack of any knowledge terrified him rather than intruiged him.

His captor slowly reined his horse to a slow walk, despite her gnawing at her bit and whinneying. John risked patting her side with his hands and heard a surprised grunt from his captor. Quickly he stopped and drew his hands up against his chest, feeling ever so small. The horse stopped near a narrow path that seemed to lead up and as John's gaze followed that path, it seemed to sway and move before his eyes. What witchery was this even and where was the castle? He saw nothing in front now but the path that weaved and bobbed like it was alive.

"Here now, Elf." Gregory dismounted, happy to feel familiar territory beneath his boots. "Get down. I'll help you." Gregory reached up tonassist the Elf and was consequently rewarded with a sharp slap across his face with the Elf's bound hands. Trying to get down off the other side, the Elf misjudged his distance and fell awkwardly, butt in the air and elbows on the ground. Gregory stifled a laugh, anger from the Elf's blow draining when he saw the Elf struggling to get up. He sighed and simply pulled the small Elf up with one hand around his arm, and then led him to where the path was shimmering and bobbing. "Get one thing straight, you." Gregory held the Elf's arm tightly, pulling it up like a chicken wing ready to be eaten and the Elf's face turned a mixture of fear and stubborness. "You are now the property of my Master, like it or not. Continue to act like this and there will be a steep price to pay. Now move it. Set your feet upon the path. I am hungry and need a bath." Gregory pushed the Elf in front of him and the Elf took a reluctant step forward, onto the path. He gasped in surprise and the path, like a living thing, began to sway under his feet. "Here now. Just move along and it will take us right to the front door." Gergory nodded at a squire who had appeared ready to take care of Ciara. He pushed the Elf along and then held on to the frame of his prisoner tightly. They seemed to swoop up into the heavens and the Elf would have fainted if Gergory had not a good steady hold on his small body.

John closed his eyes and prayed. It had been many days since he had been in worship but to the Gods he offered up his thanks and his plea to leave the world of madness he was now encased in and let him go back to his simple plot of land in the plains and to his house and to his barn and to his goats.He felt the mist of the clouds around him and he gasped and felt his feet land on something solid and not moving. John looked around anxiously and to his surprise they were in front of the castle and the wooden doors--or were they some kind of stone---opened up slowly and ominously. John stifled a gasp and held up his bound hands to his mouth, his large blue eyes wide and frightened. The man who stood next to him grinned and pulled him forward, into the great hall lit by a large hanging wooden framed light above them. There were people bowing and talking to the man, but most eyes were on John, and the looks he was getting as they walked forward were not all favourable. The language was so strange to his ears and he tried to concentrate on getting something out of the comments but his brain felt like it would explode with the effort. He was terrified with a fear he had never experienced before, not even when he was injured in the lancing contest, when the lance his opponent was using sliced through his shoulder and out the other side. If it hadn't been for the quick work of his friend Jack Whitehall, John would have bled out and died. As it was, his shoulder still bore an ugly scar from his ordeal. But this...this marching to an unknown doom was thousands of time worse than any injury or accident. John felt tears prick his eyes but he blinked them away determined to meet his fate like a brave man.

Gregory was anxious to deliver his cargo and go back to his wife Molly and their twins. He had missed her--her long pretty silken hair and bright eyes, her impish smile, and the way she could whip up a meal in minutes for him. His reward for delivering the Elf had been a promise of some time with his family, some time that would not be split up into exercising the warrior troops or breaking a mountain steed. He and Molly would have a good time, he was sure of it, and right now, all he wanted was to show his Master he had done what had been asked of him so he could go to her.

They walked to another set of wide doors and John watched in horror as those, too, swung open as if seeing them coming from a few metres away. They walked into a rather opulent room, complete with heavy silken drapes on the large framed floor to ceiling windows and a soft rug beneath their feet. John had never seen such rich furnishings in all his days. And they were of bright vivid colours, so much so that his mind's eye could hardly digest such a pallete. His mouth hung open as he gaped, head turning this way and that, trying to determine if this room could be real.

"He hardly looks worth it. I thought he'd be ...bigger."

Gergory bowed and pushed the Elf forward towards his Master, who had suddenly and abruptly materialised out of nowhere, as he was apt to do for effect. The Knight Warrior was used to his Master being somewhat of a show off and it was certainly affecting the Elf, who was standing there, mouth agape, eyes wide, trembling ever so slightly.

"He is what he is," Gregory shrugged. "He put up a bit of a struggle."

"Nothing too much, I hope."

Gregory watched as Prince Sherlock, the Silver Mage of Seven Hearts dramatically swooped his way around the Elf, turning this way and that, his slender curvy body moving with grace and a sinewy strength. LEaning in, the Mage sniffed the Elf then wrinkled his nose.

"Needs a good washing up." For emphasis, he enunciated the 'P' quite loudly.

:Well yes I suppose he does. I do too. WHich begs the question. Am I done now?" Gergory leaned forward his handsome rugged face questioning.

"Yes yes of course. Run along and just" Sherlock waved a hand "Do what it is you do with that girl. Thank you, Graham."

"It's Gregory. I wish you'd remember, Master." Gregory gritted his teeth and scowled.

"Oh." Sherlock shrugged, still sniffing and looking at the Elf. Gregory allowed himself a smile. In the few days that the Elf had been his companion, he had learned when his captive was not happy. This was one such time. He hoped his Master was patient though he knew him not to be.

"SO I will take my leave. See you in a couple of weeks."

"Goodbye Grayson." Sherlock said absently, leaning in towards the Elf to take a long rather involved sniff.

"Have it your way." With that, Gregory headed to the doors that seemed to open of their own vilation and the Elf was alone with the Mage.

John wished he could cross his arms and tell this git to get out of his personal space. He wasn't afraid any longer and he longed for the luxury of a long wash in a bath and some soft sheets and a blanket like the ones he had at home, in his little house. This tall rather maniacal looking man....was making him mad because of his elaborate dancing around and sniffing. John knew he must smell .... used. The dirt from the cave and the rocks clung to his clothes and his face and body hadn't seen a good scrubbing in days. John was not used to going unwashed or being dirty. If there was anything a Plains Elf liked it was a good hot shower or bath and when one couldn't have it, well, it made for very grumpy companionship. As it was, though, with his hands still bound, all John could do was to stand there and glower. He frowned, making lines appear in his forehead, and he watched this maniac move around as if on some kind of strings controlled from above, so fluid were his body movements. ON first glance, the man was somewhat beautiful, John thought, although his actions made him less so. John did not want to ever be sniffed like he was a tree for a hound. The man, though...well, he was...different....Dark hair, long and thick and curly framed his narrow face. His skin was almost translucent in the light and he was tall, thin, and possessed the biggest hands John had ever seen on any being.

"What...are you to do with me..." John spoke. Movement ceased.

"Are you talking to me, Elf?" Sherlock stared at the little Elf in front of him with a small frown. He did not know this Plains language but he supposed it would not be hard to learn it. After all, he thought modestly, I mastered Dwarf in a less than an hour. Curiously, he reached out and touched the tip of his finger to the upturned Elven nose, and was rewarded with a smack of the Elf's bound hands."Oh, that was unwise." Sherlock shook his head and was pleasantly surprised to see no fear in the Elf's gaze. Obviously, he had underestimated the Elf's will. He wondered if George...was it George?...didn't sound right somehow...well, his chief Warrior General...whateverhisnamewas....had had any trouble with the Elf. Sherlock surmised that there might have been an occasion or 2.

"Because really, if you think you are going to eat me...or beat me...or use me as target practice then ...well...then kill me now. I would rather not know my fate." John closed his eyes and felt rather than saw the strange man come closer, their bodies almost touching. The man smelled of pine and bergamot and pleasures of the forest. His was a spicey heady heat smell and John gasped slightly as the scent filled his nostrils. A finger under his chin directed his head up. An unspoken command forced his eyes to open so they were looking right into the myriad of colours in the other's irises. So beautiful, John thought. He heard a voice inside of his head although no lips were moving. It was soothing. Soft. Warm. John swayed and was caught before he could hit the ground.

"A warm bath for you. And then we'll talk," whispered the Mage, nodding to his royal page Richard who had come when summoned. "Be gentle. He's mostly asleep."

"Of course, Master." Richard picked up the Elf reverently in his arms and started towards the door.

"And Richard?" Sherlock called out, his back kept turned towards his page. "Don't spare the soap."


	5. All That Glitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elf John gets pierced and is displayed to his Master. Things do not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get back to Meridia. I have some ideas that have been festering but no time to write. Tonight, I aim to cure that.

Some _people gathered around him, although John could not see their faces. Were they human? Elven? Warriors? Or slaves? He knew not. He was on a podium that was built of rags. He smelled of antiseptic and fear and his nose twicthed at the odour. He could master scents. Why could he not claim this one? He was certain he was under a spell of muted blues and greens and silvers and browns and even grays but he did not know how to break it. He felt small and meek and this bothered him for even though he was short in stature, he was brave and tall in other ways. No reason he was on display. No reason why someone--a dark shadow--well built and smelling of the antiseptic and what else? Witch hazel. Steel. Chalk. What manner of torture was this?? John gasped and attempted to surface for he was now in a hazy pool, his limbs heavy and still as he stood there straight as a statue in a sea of confusion. His brain was not working--indeed it would not work._

_Suddenly, a pinch to his right nipple. A pinch he asked his brain. Yes, a pinch, his brain responded. Not a harsh pinch but a solid pinch. A solid pinch, asked John. What merits a solid pinch? Well, his brain said haughtily, a solid pressing constant pinch. Ohhhh, yes, John said, very constant. Almost like it was being held in place. He squinted and tried to look down but his head would not move. Straight and tall straight and tall and...motionless. Silent._

_A fire burned at once taking his breath away and making him moan aloud. He did not hear himself, only the muted vibrations in his throat and ears. That constant pressure was gone now, replaced by stabbing short bursts of pain and John tried to get down, tried to run, tried to escape the shape in front of him, now doubling in size, as if there were 2 of them. Brain? What is going on? Why does my nipple hurt and oh no there is the pressure in the other one. Pinch. Press. Stabbing pain. Release. John gasped. Felt tears running down his face. He longed to cup his nipples, to feel with his fingers what had transpired on his chest but he could not move. He was once again a statue. He hurt but someone, a shape, asked him to drink a liquid. Well of course it's a liquid, said his brain with reproach. You cannot eat a drink. John frowned. His brain was not being very nice to him. He would have to take this matter up with it later. He opened his mouth and felt the cool quench the fire on his chest. He closed his eyes and the shapes disappeared and all was right in his world for now._

 

Richard covered the Elf up with a quilt, hoping he would sleep for a bit now that the damage had been done. It was almost daybreak and in a short 5 hours, the Elf would be formally presented to his Master. That left Richard exactly 5 hours to make sure the Elf looked presentable in his robes and jewels and makeup and his nipples, now newly pierced, on display through his clothing. Master was specific. Two holes in each nipple. Two rings in each hole. Small and golden rings, mind you. The type of thin wire that made Richard's long fingers feel like clay. He had had a rough time inserting the piercings but an even rougher time to close the clasp on each ring. Thank goodness Aiden had assisted him because Richard thought he would have balled it up if he had been alone trying to do such an intricate thing. Besides, Aiden had had experience in piercings, having several on his own body, all adorned with his Warrior colour, which was a seafoam green. Richard had none, not being a Warrior and having no desire to be when he was growing up. Warriors fought every weekend, playing before sold out crowds in their huge colisee, and had the nicest lifestyle, spoiled with big houses, personal servants and squires, and all the adoration they could stand. But Richard had chosen a simpler path, one that paid well, even though he had to watch out for the mercurial moods of Master. His home was in the castle and he couldn't have asked for a nicer living area; small, but cozy, Richard had decorated it the way he pleased and nobody expected him to have to fight with a different opponent (chosen through the luck of the draw) and risk injury. Long ago, the Warriors of Meridia had fought to the death. Now everything was betting and gambling. Stakes were high when there was a good match up. For instance, when Meridia fought against the Warriors from Eastwick, there was not even SRO in the big arena. Smaller attractions still equaled a good amount of money changing hands. It was just their way of life here.

Richard gathered up the robes in which he would dress the Elf and placed the adornments for the face on a shelf. He hoped that the spell Master had placed upon the Elf would last until just before he was presented, because if Richard had to struggle to adorn the short fellow, then he would have to either tie the Elf or try to persuade him that it was for his own good and advantage if he followed along with the plan. Richard spoke some Elvish, though he was unsure if the dialect he knew would be the same as the one this Elf knew. It was worth a try. Richard could be an eloquent speaker and if the Gods were smiling on him, then the Elf would see to reason and accept the presentation.

Eye darkening stick. Check. Blusher for cheeks. Check. Coloured kohl for eye countour. Check. Lip stain. Check. Brushes and applicators. Check. He noticed his hand trembling as he reached to straighten the coloured kohl sticks. He was nervous about the Elf's reaction and the presentation. Admittedly, Master had told him that the Elf was none too happy about being brought here and had indeed attempted to escape Warrior Lestrade when being brought to Meridia. RIchard had already asked Aiden to be present during this, his attempt at making the Elf fall into the standard guidelines of appearance for a Silver Mage, and Aiden was more than happy to say yes. Richard thought, though, that the younger man had a penchant for liking mayhem and perhaps that was why he readily agreed. Richard sighed and hoped not for the first time tonight that there would be no chaos and things would run smoothly.

John woke up to a dull pain on either side of his chest. His mouth was dry and flat and his head pounded with every beat of his heart. He propped up on one elbow and squinted, taking stock of his surroundings. He was in a rather large airy room. Walls were stained a light beige colour. Furnishings were minimal. In the one corner was a huge bathtub with a screen and a stool beside it. In the corner was a wardrobe, doors now open, clothing --some bright some muted--sticking out this way and that. He himself was lying on a round bed covered with a pile of soft quilting, more quilting on top of him, wrapping around his body. John shook his head and suddenly remembered his dream and the possible source of the throbbing ache on his chest.

"Darfaluna!!! Disogenisiryta! Fulkabida!!!" John uttered these vulgarities as he practically leaped from the bed and stood on shaking legs in the centre of the room. He felt no shame in saying the ancient swear words of his people, even though those words were to be saved for a dire circumstance. Well, this was one dire circumstance, he thought wildly, hands flying to his nipples and then moaning out loud from the pain when his fingers glanced them. He raced over to the oval floor mirror by the bathtub and stared at his reflection. On his chest, in each nipple, were rings of gold. And all around the rings was the swelling and redness of his skin and tissue. John backed up, not believing he had been marked like this. In all of his days he had never known anyone with any....stabbings....like these. The stabbings of ears were pretty commonplace and yet, he had these on his chest. And any touch of the rings or his nipples caused him to almost retch with the pain, it was that intense. By the Gods..what had they done to him???

A door opening behind him caught his attention and John turned. A tall athletic man with rich dark hair and sun coloured skin walked in gracefully. He was carrying a bundle of clothing reverently held in front of him as though he did not want it to touch his own body. John frowned and went over to the edge of the bed to sit. The man bowed slightly then laid the clothing on a stand that was behind the tub. John craned his neck to see what the man was doing beside the tub, bent over as he was now. Water began to run and John stiffened. Another bath? He was fully aware that he no longer smelled of the road or carried any of the past noxious odours on his body from the horseback journey, so it wasn't a guess that he had had one bath already. And now another? In front of this strange man? John thought not.

RIchard could tell that the Elf was watching his every move. He breathed softly and quietly, not wanting to put his array of fears that the Elf would be uncooperative and he would have a struggle with him and yet, knowing that the end result was likely just that. The Elf's nipples were angry red and practically swelling up over the rings, obscuring their understated beauty. Richard had a herbal medicinal for that very thing and wanted to apply it as soon as possible so Master would be pleased with his efforts. Turning towards the Elf now, Richard tried to remember the language.

"Perhaps bathing will good be now," he began. The Elf looked at him blankly. Trying again, Richard took another deep breath and gestured towards the tub, now filling with fragrant lavender water. "A bathing is now please thank you for this understand."

"What are you trying to say?" John bit back a laugh. It was obvious that the tall man knew some sort of Elvish though not the Plains kind, and John was grateful that at last there was SOMEONE who spoke SOME bit of dialect with him. "I would like a bath. But not with you here. Go. Go away." John gestured with his hand to exit the room, pointing towards the heavy door from where the man had entered. "GO. AWAY. I need to...soak."

"I help you need."

"No. NO I CAN HELP ME NEED WITHOUT YOU." John's jaw thrust stubbornly out and he saw the panic on the man's face. Oh this was interesting. John felt like he now held the upper hand and crossed his arms in front of him before remembering that his nipples were swollen and hot and stung when contact was made. "Damnations."

"I ...You...oh fuck it," Richard muttered and swiftly strode towards the Elf, who watched him come with half challenge half fear. Carefully but quickly, RIchard grabbed the Elf with gentle hands and picked him up, holding him in front with extended arms. With a squeal, the Elf tried to wriggle out of Richard's grasp but strong hands held firm and within 3 strides, the Elf was now poised over the tub full of fragrant steam. Uncerimoniously, Richard let go and the Elf dropped into the tub with a splash.

John sputtered and tried to swear but a hand over his mouth ended that. Richard had called for back up and Aiden held on to the Elf tightly, submerging his head under the water then as gently as he could, lifting him out. Richard scrubbed at the Elf's already clean skin, wanting to mark him with the fragrance, a favourite of Master's, trying not to hurt him by brushing anything by his chest and swollen nipples.

"I hate you!....I gurgleglumphewcoughcough" John tried to kick at the men who held him but it was to no avail. They were strong and he was at a definite disadvantage. One of them, the one who had held a hand over his mouth initially, said something to the other and they both stopped, then one gathered a towel. John assumed he was done so he waited to be helped out of the tub since the sides were too high to hang on to. Sure enough, he was lifted easily by the one with the long hair and short beard, the one had called him Aiden, he thought. Neither of them said anything as they gently toweled him off, making sure to peel his small clothes off of his wet body. John sighed and thought he would let them do that. He was tired, hungry, headachey and sure he had been drugged somehow. And then there was the matter of his chest. Oh it stung a great deal!

"We done with this part? He smells pretty strongly. I take it you doused his robes with the same scent?" Aiden toweled the Elf's hair and looked over to see Richard gathering the pile of clothing he had brought. The scent of lavender was everywhere. It was pleasing and sharp and reminded Aiden of the fields to the north of the castle. When the winds blew just right, the whole palace was full of the heady smell.

"Aye. Hold him still." Richard nodded as Aiden gently but firmly pushed on both of John's shoulders. The Elf made a little noise and Aiden quickly removed his hands from the Elf.

"Why is he crying out? DId I hurt him?" Aiden studied the Elf's face. It was stoic and stubborn looking but also drawn and pale.

"You did not touch his chest did you?" Richard murmured, sorting out the clothing, not looking up from his task.

"No."

"Well, then, he's fine." Richard took a step towards the Elf, holding out a richly brocaded pair of small pants. They were made of silk and long in the legs, not unlike bloomers. As the Elf looked at them, his expression changed to one of disdain.

"No." John turned or tried to turn around but the one man again put his hands on his shoulders, inhibiting movement. "Fuck. Darfaaluna!!!"

"Put these on, Elf." Richard was now gritting his teeth. Must everything he did with the Elf be met with some kind of resistance?

"NO!" Suddenly his teeth found the webbing  between Aiden's thumb and finger and he bit down hard.

"Damn it!" Aiden jumped back, holding his hand while the Elf seeing his opportunity, scrambled for the door, naked and pink from the bath.

John reached for the handle but as he was about to turn it, it seemed to turn on its own and sudddenly in front of him....was the man with the unusual eyes whom he had seen earlier.

"What the Zeus is going on here? Why is he not adorned yet? Are you not following my explicit commands?" Haughty. Pale like a statue. Dressed in rich teal and black. Prince Sherlock, Silver Mage, stood tall and lean in the doorway with a vexed look on his narrow face. One dark curl fell over one eye making him look even more rakish than he was.

"Master." Richard immediatley bowed knowing that Aiden was doing the same, only Aiden would have bowed lower considering his station. "He has been cleaned and pierced. I am ...attempting to ...dress him and ready him for ...the...unveiling. He is making things somewhat difficult however."

"Really?" Sherlock fairly strutted over to the Elf, who was clenching and unclenching his small fists, a look of pure defiance on his face. One thin finger caught the Elf's chin, pulling his head up and fixing his gaze. "You need to allow my men to attend to you, Elf. Or there will be more than just words that sting." Sherlock studied the Elf's face. He was not backing down, a fact that Sherlock found delicious. He cocked his own head to the side. "If you would like me to lose my most charitable mood, you can continue to impede my men's progress. I know you understand me. I have mastered your language, such a simple dialect with no discernable hard vocabulary to it, in less than an hour. You belong to me-"

"-I belong to no-"

A slap to the Elf's face and then silence.

"You. Belong. To. ME." With a whirl of his lithe body, Sherlock was out the door and the decisive slam of it meant only one thing. John was to cooperate.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"There. A little paint does wonders." Richard stood back and admired his handiwork. Since the Mage's appearance and the Elf getting slapped, there had been no outbursts or bites or struggling. The 2 men dressed the Elf calmly, making sure every button was buttoned and every fastener was fastened. The blue in the robes brought out the blue in the Elf's eyes. And of course, in the front, there was an absence of cloth so one could see the pierced nipples, so pretty and pink now, the gold sparkling in the half light of the room. The ointment had cooled the skin around the piercings and brought down the swelling. Richard wondered briefly what they would look like in the full on sunlight of the Great Room, with the wall to floor windows. The Elf, to him, was pleasing to look at, a fact that he would never share with Master.

"Aye, he looks pretty. I like the blue lids and the pale lips." Aiden nodded in approval. The Elf stood still and silent, chin raised, eyes defiant but not struggling. "I wonder what's going through his head."

"Nothing good, I can tell you." He sighed and looked at his friend. "Are you ready? I hear the music."

"Yeah. No time like the present." Aiden gently took one of the Elf's elbows in his hand, the hand now sporting a bandage from the bite. Richard took the Elf's other elbow and guided the three of them towards the staircase leading down to the Elf's fate.

 

 

 


	6. Seeing Things Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's pov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry so short. More later I promise!

Just exactly how long had it been since a Mage...of any coulour...had chosen a mate through the Books? Sherlock paused as he was bathing, sponge held up high over one pale shoulder. water dripping down on to his skin. He frowned considering the inquiry then shrugged and continued his wash. He figured it had to have been more than 5 centuries, all told, many a lifetime of Mages and Mates. 5 centuries! What had that even been like back in the day, Sherlock wondered, then shook his head as if to clear out the cobwebs. Such revelation did not come easily for anyone, let alone a powerful magical Mage second in line to the throne of Meridia, behind brother Mycroft, who simply refused to spin ANY magic even though he had the powers he was born with. Refused to spin magic...Sherlock paused and considered this, then quickly brushed it out of his head. He had better things on which to focus.

The Books had told him, shown him, his Mate to be. Such an odd happening in of itself. Sherlock had been musing over a series of dead beetle carcasses, determining what had killed the giant scarab like insects, when out of the blue, one of his oldest tomes fell from its spot on the bookcase behind him. Sherlock had jumped--rightfully so as the Book had made quite a disturbance in its landing. The beetles now abandoned, Sherlock had turned and bent to pick up the Book when the pages began to flutter, faster and faster until the Book vibrated and pitched and as Sherlock stared, practically THROWN itself open to a seemingly non descript page. Sherlock peered down, nose wrinkling as it did when he was in the business of concentrating, and it was then that he saw the drawing.

Sketches were sometimes hurried by the artists but this one seemed to be a small masterpiece with its contouring and highlighting and the absolute precision of the lead strokes. The face was broad and pleasant. Elfish ears on either side of the head. A shock of brownish hair with streaks of lighter strokes framed the face and curled around the earpoints. The mouth was open slightly displaying a small episode of surprise and between those parted lips were teeth that were good and even. Eyes deep set and curious gazed out of the face. Sherlock had felt his breath hitch as he picked up the Book and examined the drawing more closely. Reverent long fingers touched the page and he felt a strong wave of desire course through his lean body.

"And that, good Elf, is how you had the luck to come here to me." Sherlock stood and snatched a towel from the stool nearby. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of bergamot, sandalwood and lavender that fairly rolled off his red skin. It had been a fine bath, even though he had had to draw it himself seeing as how his personal manservant was busy with his guest. A quick towelling off and Sherlock was donning his clothing. He had chosen silvery blue, just for the effect knowing how the colour made his eyes stand out. He wanted--needed--the Elf to be impressed.

The Elf. Sherlock sighed aloud and pulled his leggings up. He was a spitfire that one, a fact that Sherlock had anticipated and which was why Gregory had been the one who had been assigned to bring the Elf to Sherlock. Still, the Elf was a vessel of mystery and one that Sherlock was determined to break open and examine much like he did with everything else that piqued his curiousity.

Royal robes were on. Sherlock frowned and kicked his crown aside, darkly watching it as he stood in front of the mirror. He would not wear that on his head, even though his parents would not be happy. He wanted the Elf to be in awe of him, not to laugh because of the shiny hat thingy he wore on his head. With one last look in the mirror, Sherlock turned and, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat, slipped out his door down the hallway and to the Royal Staircase.


	7. All That Glitters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Presentation begins....

John swallowed hard. The lump in his throat was now making breathing difficult and as he was pulled and pushed along down the stairway by his 2 attendants, he grew even more nervous. Never one to call attention to himself, John had lived a pretty dull life in the Plains compared to this. He enjoyed company, as long as they arranged ahead of time when to come over, and he liked to go into the town and talk to the various peddlers and shopkeepers and view their wares but this? Being "presented" (whatever that meant, him in a tight outfit that showed his still sore and slightly swollen nipples) to a man he did not know, and in front of a crowd. John heard the noises of the public below them. Chairs scraping. People moving. Laughter and lilting music. He knew not one word of this strange and terrible dialect; he only knew he was being led to his fate. And he did not like it.

Aiden looked at Richard over the Elf's head. As they progressed down the marble stairway, the Elf seemed to be dragging his feet more and more, causing some delay in their intent. Aiden was about to say something when Richard suddenly stopped, holding the Elf by the arm and jerking him to stand in front of him on the lower step.

"You must acccept fate your way now.I know you understand what part I say so just pick feet up your and have to make it down now." Richard frowned, a crease showing between his dark blue eyes. The Elf stood defiantly, not even indicating that he understood what Richard was saying. In a small spit of anger, Richard held on to the Elf's elbow tightly. Aiden gasped when he saw the Elf cringe yet hold his ground, nose in the air, eyes never leaving Richard's face. "Come along. Elf." RIchard fairly flung the word from his lips and began their descent again, pulling the Elf along.

"You shouldn't get so mad. He doesn't understand you." Aiden was holding on to the Elf's other elbow, but loosely, matching the Elf's cadence as he walked downstairs.

"He understands me all right. He's just being stubborn. And if we make the Master wait..." the threat went silent on his lips as he thought of how disapproving Sherlock would be if they were late for the Presentation. "2 more flights to go, Elf. Then you're all his."

John took a deep breath. He was scared, and his heart was beating rapidly. He thought he might faint but then squealched that urge because he did not want to appear weak. He might be outnumbered here in this walled city but he was in no way a coward, unable to deal with what was thrown at him, even though being thrown at him entailed his pecs to be on display, and his nipples pierced. The Elf ground his teeth and silently hoped that the tall pale man would find him simply unappealing. But he didn't count on how delicious he looked, and as he stepped out of the stairwell and on to the platform in the front of the Royal Ballroom, there were audible gasps from the onlookers. And the tall pale man who was seated haphazardly on a big wooden chair, saw them, and when his eyes met John's, he rose with a fluid movement and like a cat, was beside the Elf. His long fingers splayed over John's chest, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the pain that remained after the piercing.

"Beautiful. These accentuate you. Come. Let me Present you." Sherlock leaned in so his mouth was right beside John's ear. The rich baritone voice dropped to a hiss so only John could hear him. His warm wine scented breath as he spoke to him make John's insides go hot, like he was touching an oven. "Behave yourself. If you make a fuss I will make sure that not only will you not eat for a few days but you will not be able to sit down for a while without a cushion under that fine ass of yours."

"Bastard." John stared straight ahead. He was incrdulous, though, as to how this .... man could learn the language so quickly, His accent and fluidity were perfect. He sounded like he was born in the Plains where John had made his home, and it angered John. It angered him a lot.

"You're angry. Well. It makes you even more beautiful. John."

"Piss off."

"Tsk. Come. Let's take a walk." Sherlock grapsed John's hand, long fingers arching around John's smaller fingers, encasing him in a kind of fleshy trap. "Smile."

The crowd began to clap as John stared dumbly out at the sea of faces. The audience was clapping and cheering and as John was led across the small stage area, he did not even comprehend what was happening. The tall man was bowing a bit and nodding but John was too stunned to do anything but stare. Were they cheering him? And why were they cheering him? Perhaps they were celebrating the tall man whose hand had engulfed his own. John felt weak at his knees but stubbornly refused to give in to the dark buzz that lay so close to his inner self. He would not be weak. He would not be broken.

"They like your adornments." Sherlock flicked a ring on his right nipple causing John to draw a sharp breath and instinctively pull back. "OH no, no. Those are mine." He ruffled John's sandy brown hair, making the Elf try to duck away. "That is mine." Sherlock pulled John closely to him so their bodies were flush against each other and gave the crowd a jaunty wave. He leaned in closely to John's ear again, ignoring the struggling Elf. "Your body...is mine. Oh we shall have such long moments to play out our feelings for one another. What thinks you of that, Elf?"

"Fuck off." John attempted to pull away again but Sherlock held him fast.

"What words of love you whisper to me, Elf. John." Sherlock felt John shudder at the mention of his name. He dared to plant a small kiss on the outer shell of the Elf's ear point, garnering a quick pulling away movement of John's head.

"How dare you!" JOhn's eyes blazed as they held Sherlock's gaze. The Elf was too angry to be influenced by the myriad of colours in those big irises. "We are not wed! You will not touch my ears!"

"Oh but I shall. And I can. And I will." Sherlock smiled at John but it was not sincere. Rather it was a challenge. John drew in a deep breath and turned square to face the audience, who were unaware of their exchange, or so it did seem.

"I look at your people as one would look at a pot of slop. Or a puddle of mud." John murmured.

"Oh John. How silly you are. They don't care. All they are looking at are your nipples,gloriously adorned with golden rings. And your eyes, so delicately outlined with coloured kohl. And your body, small yet sturdy, able to bear the weight of me upon you." Sherlock again grabbed John's hand and twirled him around, careful not to make the Elf trip and fall. Sherlock was trying to maintain a sense of teasing when all he really wanted to do was to get the Elf alone and touch those rings, pull them with his teeth and turn those sensitive sore buds over and over in his mouth. The Elf had a fragrance that filled Sherlock's senses and made him weak to the knees. The Book had done well in picking his mate to be. Now to convince the Elf of such a thing. And Sherlock had no idea where or how to begin.

"I don't....I don't..."John was trying to put some coherent thoughts behind his words all the while being twirled and maneuvered about the small stage. The crowd seemed like a dull roar and at once, a flare of panic hit his belly. He looked wildly at Sherlock, then out at the blurred faces of the crowd and a small sound escaped his lips.

"John." Sherlock stopped moving the Elf about and drew him close against his own body. To Sherlock's surprise, John was shivering ever so slightly, his body warm and trembling. "I do think this is enough Presentation. We will continue on with dinner and ceremony. Come." Gently, Sherlock released the Elf and with care, took his hand and half led, half pulled him over to a large area of the Hall that had a wooden table, very ornate and made of the finest mid mountain oak, and where several people sat watching them as they approached. "We will eat soon. Perhaps you will feel better if you have some food in your stomach."

John allowed Sherlock to pull his chair aside for him and then guide him by one elbow as he sat down. The darkness at the edge of his vision was almost gone now and he breathed deeply, smelling bread, and wine and fishes and fine brocades of material and of course lavender. His nostrils flared with the scents. A movement beside him indicated that Sherlock was sitting down now too. John chanced a look and was met by those curiously strange and beautiful eyes again. In a rare moment of being flustered, John looked away and down at the table. How could his captor, this strangely delicate yet fierce man be presumptious and infuriating one minute and so kind and concerned the next? Was it a trick to wear down John's defenses? Or was he to be permanently confused? What was the meaning of the Presentation? Why were the people all clapping and cheering as if they were at a sporting event? John did not know.

"We can have some bread and wine, John. It might take your nerves away." Sherlock pushed a goblet at John but the Elf shook his head. "It's not poison. And if you refuse to drink it," Sherlock said quietly, "my parents will take that as an affront." Again, he pushed the goblet closer. John reached out and wrapped his fingers around the handle. "Good."

"I am only doing this because I want to, not because you say so." John took a sip. It was really rather good.

"Of course." Sherlock was also drinking from his goblet. "Liquid courage. Although you seem to have courage enough for several men, let alone elves."

"I was a soldier once," John whispered back. He was grateful that he could at least speak his own language and be understood.

"Ah yes, with the ...what was it....Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers..impressive. You were a...healer?"

"Yes. Medicinal arts." John took another sip of his wine. So heady. So grape-y.

"And yet here you are. A simple farmer. Why indeed did you not stay in the military?" Sherlock suddenly got a look on his face that was one of sheer enlightenment. "Why indeed. Because you were against the whole Elven uprising. Is that it?"

John stared down at his hands. Nobody knew why he had opted to leave the military after 3 years. He was still collecting a pension--it paid for the upkeep on his farm and his animals--but the fact that he would rather have seen a peace pact signed and sealed made him a sort of outcast with his unpopular opinion. How Sherlock had known that was beyond him at this moment.

"I see I am right." Another sip of wine. John was fighting the urge to get up and flee this whole ridiculous Presentation thing. He wondered briefly who the rest of the people were at their table.

"Does it matter? I suppose I will never go home again." John swallowed hard. He tried to remember what home looked like. All he could think of was lavender and walls made of stone rather than brick and dust and clay. He realised his hand was shaking once again and he stared dully at it. He wasn't to be eaten or used for target practice or even enslaved and yet...here he sat with nipples exposed--and pierced-- with a man who was as mysterious as he was handsome and cruel and kind.

"Never. This is your home now, John." Sherlock leaned towards him and gave a chaste kiss to one cheek. "And I am your world."


	8. Books Get Looks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reading anyone?

Richard and Aiden stood outside the door to Sherlock's private library and listened. The Silver Mage was in head on fury from the sounds of the bumping and slamming coming from the other side of the heavy wooden door. Aiden shook his head, eyes wide, when Richard indicated with a nod of his head that Aiden should knock and enter.

"No way. You think I am daft? He'll turn me into a water salamader. Is that what you want? You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Aiden nudged the other man with the edge of the tea tray and leaned closer to Richard so he could continue. "Maybe he'll turn you into something too. I'd like to see that."

"Oh, no doubt you would. Except I know how to keep Master happy. And you are still figuring it out."

Suddenly the door opened with a flourish and a spark. Sherlock stood there, practically panting, his hair a tousled mess as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly and his dressing gown was halfway off his narrow shoulders.

"Master." Richard bowed slightly and poked Aiden to do the same. Sherlock ignored both of them and stepped between them, bumping into the tray that Aiden had extended.

"Where is the Elf??" Sherlock looked at RIchard, who was standing there with mouth slightly agape. "Well? Richard?" Now his mouth was sneering, full pout coming on.

"He is still in his chambers. I checked on him this morning and found him quite agreeable to staying there until lunch time." Richard swallowed nervously, aware that Aiden was also looking at him but with an expression of fear more than anything else.

"Agreeable? AGREEABLE? It is not for the Elf to agree to anything...Richard." Richard cringed at his Master's tone of voice. Yet, Sherlock immediately settled down and blinked staring off into space. "Get him and bring him to me. He's not to decide what to do. That's MY job. And the sooner he knows that, well," Sherlock grinned a bit fakely at Richard, "the better." Sherlock then whirled around and stared at Aiden who practically flinched. "No tea for me, thanks. Too busy. Off you go." And with a dismissive hand, Sherlock shut the door.

"Hmph. That went well." RIchard murmured. He ran a hand through his dark hair. He knew the Elf would probably give him a hard time and he was not looking forward to that. Still, if he had Aiden with him, perhaps the Elf would cooperate better. Two were always better than one.

 

John sighed and followed Richard down a long hallway. At the end was a large dark green door, flanked on one side by huge golden hinges. There were no markings or any indication that it was anything special other than the smells that seemed to fill the hallway. Martin's nose twitched. Books. The smell of books. Old pages, printed words, ink, bindings and musty ramblings. He wanted to ask his escort if this was indeed Sherlock's library but did not open his mouth to speak. After the night before, being 'presented' to Sherlock's family and friends, John had made a vow to keep silent. He hoped that would piss some people off so they would all just leave him alone. 

He thought back to the evening as they walked, reliving the meeting of Sherlock's parents. They seemed nice enough, as monarchs go, and acknowledged him with a barely impreceptible nod of their heads. John was pushed ahead of Sherlock, who kept one big hand on his shoulder with his long fingers playing about with the gold rings on his chest. John had become irritated and almost said something but a hand on the back of his neck with the barest amount of pressure told him to keep quiet. So John did but inside he was seething.

Then there was Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. At least that was how Sherlock had pronounced his name. Mycroft. What did it mean? And for that matter, what did Sherlock mean? John thought the names odd, rolling off the tongue odd. None of the Plains Elves had names like this. But they quite suited these 2, in a way. Haughty and aloof. And bossy, John thought. The minute he met Mycroft, Sherlock was arguing with him about...well, John wasn't sure but the way Mycroft looked at him askance, it had to have been about John. That moment was made even more uncomfortable because Mycroft had shoved Sherlock aside to grab John's chin with 2 fingers and pull his head up so John was forced to look at the older man. Their gazes locked for a few seconds and then Mycroft had released him with a dramatic sigh. John had the urge to rub his chin but did not want either brother to notice so he just stood silently and stubbornly. Sherlock then pushed him forward and they continued their parade around the room. Aside from Mycroft, none of the other people touched John and for that he was grateful. However, there were many who looked appraisingly at him, and at his exposed chest. Damn the nipple rings! John wished he had the guts to tear them out but he knew better.

Dinner was served and John spent the rest of the evening trying to seperate the vegetables from the meaty portions that were piled upon the plate. He felt rather than saw Sherlock watch him and he stuck out his chin stubbornly, but all he got in return was a derisive snort from the Mage. After dinner there was some mindless entertainment--ladies dancing and wiggling with balls and china on their heads; a dog act that was rather routine (John had seen goats do so much more in the festivals around his village); and an apparent poetry reading that made Sherlock sigh and mutter throughout, until finally, the tall slender Mage had jumped up and called a halt to the droning voices. John even felt himself smile when Sherlock was berating (or so John thought) the performers. And just as suddenly, John was yanked by his arm up and out of his seat and practically pushed to the same door from whence he had come earlier that evening, and up the stairs back to his sparse chambers.

With a start, John realised he had been day dreaming and they were now standing in front of the door at the end of the hallway. HIs escort knocked and he heard a familiar voice say something. With a bow, his escort indicated for John to go ahead and then backed away, leaving John alone with his captor.

John stood wordlessly for a few minutes, eyes roaming over the endless tomes lining the walls and on the floor. Sherlock was on a ladder, occasionally moving it along a row of bookshelves, then finding what he wanted, looking at it, then discarding it without a care. John bent and picked up the book he had dropped/threw. It was pretty. Magenta cover and blue binding. Turning it over in his small hands, John wished he could read the printing. Books had been a pleasure he had only occasionally indulged in back home on the Plains. Theyw ere expensive and quite rare.

"You can read it you know. The words."

"No. I cannot. I do not know your language." John looked up at Sherlock who had somehow managed to move the ladder directly beside him. John had to give this much to him--the man was silent when he wanted to be.

"Of course you do. I put a spell on you." He handed down a book with a blue cover, bound in gold. "Here's an adventure. You might like that, unless, of course, "Sherlock smirked, "love stories are more your ...thing."

"Love stories?? You are an insufferable git." John glared at Sherlock whose mouth was maddenly crinkling up at the corners. His eyes,, an undetermined colour, were dancing.

"And you speak before you think." Sherlock slid down the ladder, using his feet to somehow propel him to the floor. He stood in front of John and tapped the book he was now holding. "Read it. Please."

"And why should I?" John asked, with a stubborn lilt of his chin. Sherlock leaned close, his breath like a whisper against John's ear. He shuddered involuntarily.

"Because you want to." The Mage leaned back and regarded John with a scrutinising gaze. "Elf. You are mine. I can do with you whatever I want."

"Now that is where you are wrong," John answered quite peevishly. Frankly, he was sick of being bossed around, bullied and above all, pierced. "I belong to no one. Slavery isn't right. It's not legal where I come from."

"Legal?" Sherlock fairly sneered and turned, dressing gown flapping. He looked somewhat disheveled but in that messiness lay a kernel of undiscovered loveliness. And he smelled good, John thought fleetingly, his nose picking up a fresh scent of lavender and bergamot. "Legal. The Elf thinks legal is something that I should be concerned with..or about..." Sherlock turned and coolly regarded John. "I don't care about legal. I don't care what you used to believe or think or do. Your life is mine now. I have told you this. Get used to it."

"Oh for Gods sake." John perched on the ladder rung and feigned interest in the book. He felt Sherlock's stare and ignored it, trying hard to concentrate on the first words of the first chapter, indeed a bit surprised that he could actually read it.  Then a thought occured to him so he looked up, surprised to see that once again Sherlock had moved into his space and was standing right in front of him. "Why...why me..."

"Why you. Well." Sherlock steepled his long fingers delicately. "Because a Book told me."

"A book." John scrunched up his nose. "Seriously. Tell me. Did it talk? Because if it did, then that would be quite the trick."

"You are begininng to annoy me, John Elf." Sherlock frowned and took a step closer, causing John, despite his best intentions to be brave, to cringe a bit. "However. You are exquisite."

Suddenly, John felt Sherlock's lips on his. They were at once soft and demanding and forceful as well as tender and sweet and smelling of honey and cinnamon tea. John gasped and tried to pull away but a hand on the back of his head, tangling in his short brown blonde hair kept his head still and he opened his mouth in spite of his best intentions. Sherlock drew back before doing anything else and John opened his eyes, not sure of what had just happened except it was his first kiss ever and it was glorious.

"Read that book. You will enjoy it, John." Sherlock wiped his lips with the back of his hand and wandered away agian, back to the centre of the messy room, kicking at this book and that book. John felt a pang of disappointment, then lowered his head, feeling a hot blush colouring his neck. What he did not see was Sherlock smelling his hand, breathing in the scent of the Elf, memorising the kiss and his lips and his upturned nose and dark blue eyes framed with sandy lashes. Sherlock knew there was no going back now, not for either one of them.

 


	9. And Even More Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you can never win or lose if you don't run the race...

John sat and watched as Sherlock whirled and twirled, hands grabbing books and throwing them down from the safety of their wooden shelves and leaving them piled up in haphazard heaps on the floor. At first, John tried to put the books back but gave up when there were too many tomes flying about all at once. He frowned as he watched Sherlock once again pull a book out of its perch and rifle through it, then toss it aside carelessly.

"Sherlock? What are you looking for?" John dodged a book that had come dangerously close to beaning him on the head.

"What am I...John. Surely you know what I am looking for." He went back to searching, feet planted on the ladder, using his hands to scoot the ladder along the floor so he could reach the high racks. "Don't be thick. It isn't becoming on you."

"Thick?" John thrust his chin out stubbornly. "I am not...thick...In fact, if you care, I have some ...talent of my own..."

"Talent?" Sherlock paused and a little crease between his eyes happened as though he was thinking. After a few seconds he nodded more to himself than to John. "Oh yes, the scent thing. Matching a person with a scent and making that person ...things to ...scent them." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Very well and good but you don't have to work here. I am perfectly able to take care of you."

"What if I want to work? I could set up a shop and have people come to me so I could--"

"--absolutely not." Sherlock didn't even look at him when he said that. John swallowed the anger that was rising in his throat and took a step back.

"Why not? What purpose do I serve here? Getting my...my...chest...like it is..."

"Your...chest? Try saying your NIPPLES, for that is what they are called, and trust me when I say that they look beautiful."

"Alright then getting my NIPPLES pierced....and being a sort of prisoner here in this...palace..without freedom to go where I want..."

Sherlock paused and at first stared ahead then whirled to look right at the Elf.

"And where would you go if I allow you your 'freedom' (and he spit this word out as though it was rancid fruit on his tongue) to wander at your will? Would you try to escape? Go back to the Plains? To your simple life there? With your goats and your loom and your...your...whatever else." He waved his hands. "Boring." Sherlock threw another book and this time, it glanced off John's shoulder.

"Geezus." John picked up the book and laid it with the original book that Sherlock had given to him and suggested he read.

"Mythical being. Worshipped by some humans in the Western World. Wouldn't know him personally. Although that trick with loaves and fishes was spot on."

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't sure if he was going mad or if this indelicate creature in front of him was making him that way. Here was his fate then, being guarded and having every want and need swept away like nothing. He was becoming angrier by the minute and he clenched and unclenched his small fists.

"Oh really, John, you should not get so worked up. It's bad for your health." Sherlock finally looked at him. eyes meeting his. "If you want to look around, you can but you will be accompanied by either Aiden or RIchard, the 2 men who brought you to the Presentation. I can't risk you falling out of the palace and getting lost in town. That would be indelicate, especially since I introduced you to the public."

"I had no choice in this, you realise. Your...warrior...man...came to my home and took me away without my permission. Against my will! I am nobody's object. I am an Elf with his own needs and wants and thoughts."

"The sooner you get that out of your head," Sherlock said quietly and yet his voice held a menacing quality that made a shiver run up John's spine, "The happier you will be. Now help me look for it. I want to show you."

"Show me...what?"

Sherlock sighed and ruffled up his hair. When he did that, John thought of the way a goose preened itself after being in the water. He half expected Sherlock to shake his leg and grow a beak!

"You. Your picture. In the Book. You revealed yourself to me."

"I did no such thing...I don't even--"

"John. Please." Sherlock jumped off the ladder and suddenly was in front of the Elf. His eyes were fixated on John's face, on his lips, and his hands with the strong graceful long fingers caressed John's cheeks. He moved his head closer and John felt that shudder again only this time it was for the right reasons.

John closed his eyes and felt his knees get weak as Sherlock moved closer still, heat from his thin body rolling off him like a summer's day. John basked in it, in the scent of that intoxicating skin smell of lavender and bergamot and twilight on a dewy field. He tilted his head up and asked for it, for the kiss that he knew would come and his lips were not disappointed because in a heartbreak beat, Sherlock was kissing him, filling his mouth with a soft knowing tongue, making him moan and mewl and reach up and grip Sherlock's arms tightly. Wet tongues danced in an unscripted symphony. Time stopped and the dust motes in the light floated lazily as the only sounds in the room were the quiet noises of lovers.

When Sherlock broke the kiss, John was panting and stood there swaying slightly, eyes still closed. Sherlock ran a finger down the Elf's nose and gently inserted just the tip between John's pink lips. John sucked it in, opening his eyes with pupils blown. It was all Sherlock could do not to bed him right there.

"We have work to do. my Elf. If you could help me find...the Book...that would be...helpful." Sherlock reluctantly took his place back on the ladder.

"Yes. Of course." John straightened and seemed to bring clarity and focus into the world. He turned towards the wall of books and began to concentrate, wondering where such a tome would be and hoping he found it first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will have to forgive my short chapters here. And I promise to make things more entertaining and spicier.


	10. Red Moon RIsing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you can look at the sky and the moon tells us secrets....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So begins the angst...hang on kiddies....

The day had been full of promise, even though John hadn't found the Book. Or THE Book. Or just Book, if you wanted to call it that. But then again, neither had Sherlock. The Mage had torn the library practically apart, still muttering and murmuring and flapping after John had bid him a good night and gone to his room, and still the secretive Book had not turned up. SO it was with some sort of perverse satisfaction that John had slept a good sleep, rose early, and asked Richard to accompany him to see the city. The tall blue eyed man had begged off, saying in broken Elf-ese that he had to go and train with Gregory, the Warrior who had brought the Elf to the city in the first place. At that name, John had wrinkled his nose and sighed, thinking he was to be trapped in his room all day long. But precisely 10 minutes after Richard had left him, Aiden had come and through pantomimes and gestures, John had understood that Aiden was to be his guide for the day.

Getting down from the palace was no easy feat. It meant holding on to Aiden, who latched on to the Elf in a death grip, and riding down a wave of what felt like current of gusty air. John was half sick by the time his booted feet felt the earth beneath his soles and a quick look at Aiden told him that the man was not feeling particularly well either. They had gathered themselves together though and after a bit of deep breathing, both were ready to explore the city.   
Aiden proved to be a capable guide, even though the language barrier was annoying. John had so many questions but Aiden just shrugged and shook his furry head, seemingly devoid of the skill or knowledge of a good conversation in Elven. John let his eyes and nose be his better guide then.

Meridia, sometimes called Meridian on maps and routes, was a rather large city, or so it seemed to John. Around the walls were vendors and merchants selling everything from food to prepared food to leather goods and stoneware to weapons. The colisee was huge, and even though he and Aiden walked around it a bit, John could not even begin to comprehend how it would have been to be in the middle of that structure, fighting for his life. For not the first time since he was kidnapped he was happy to not be a true captive. John wondered if the games or competitions were fought to the death but again, the lack of communication was not to his advantage to ask questions. Instead, the Elf looked upon the posters of the images of the Warriors, finding Gregory, the man who had abducted him, and noticing the small shrines of stuffed animals, figurines, and flowers under not only Gregory's poster but others as well. John had pointed to them and pantomimed a question with his raised hands and arms and Aiden had pointed to the pile of things and then to the image on the poster, so John presumed fans of the pictured Warrior had left them there for maybe luck? As he and Aiden walked along, John also noticed that people in the city looked at him with reverence, like he was important. A few even bowed to him. This puzzled him. Why would they be doing this? Just another question to ask Sherlock.

Lunch was a delectable plate of greens and what looked like  mountain mushrooms and cheese all mixed together. Aiden seemed to know that John ate no meat so he did not pile any of the animal flesh on to the Elf's plate. They sat in agreeable silence, occupying a table in one of the many outdoor markets. It was pleasant and full of odd intoxicating smells, some that made John's nose twitch in curiousity. He did recognize some of the smells of the fruits and vegetables and various dairy and dry food products but he was most curious about the herbs. He wished he had some way to tell Aiden to let him linger but Aiden seemed intent on showing him most of the city at once.

They walked through what looked like a public play area, with benches and shops and green places where people were playing some kind of hand ball and kick ball, and some others were flying kites. They watched the colourful paper maiche objects sway and swing with the wind, reds and yellows vivid against the blues of the skies, all set under a misty canopy from the waterfall that always could be heard in the distance, like a dull throbbing roar. John raised his face to the sun and let the light bathe him; it felt glorious in small warmth. He wondered if he could do this at least once a week. Maybe if he asked Sherlock nicely...or maybe if he found the Book. Yes, that was it. He would try to find Richard and ask Richard to take him to the library and look for the Book and then Sherlock would be so happy that he would have to let John go to the city once a week!

Delighted by his plan, John laughed out loud and gave Aiden a grin that was genuine and happy. Aiden gave him a thumbs up sign in return then took his elbow gently and motioned towards the pathway back, back to the heart of the city, and probably back to the palace. John nodded and walked along, formulating his plans on how he was going to find the Book.

 

"Mycroft!"

"No need to shout, Sherlock. I'm right here." Mycroft looked up from his puzzle and sighed. He was a tall, relatively thin man, not a Mage as Sherlock was but still he possessed a great power within. His was more of a mental power rather than a potion or a clever turn of the mind. Mycroft, the elder brother, was a force to be reckoned with, and if his outside looks belied that, one sharp retort from his mouth could convince anyone that it was true.

"The Elf is with Aiden in the city." Sherlock flounced down in the chair next to his brother and propped his long legs up on the arm. Swinging a narrow foot, he gazed at his brother. "I couldn't find it."

"It will turn up. In good time." Mycroft went back to figuring out the puzzle in his hands. He almost had a solution and if Sherlock had not shown up, he would have been already done with it.

"What if it doesn't," Sherlock said, now kicking his feet, just enough to nudge the puzzle with his toe. A look of annoyance passed over Mycroft's smooth features and Sherlock smiled slightly, lips pursing. "I want the Elf to see himself in the pages."

"Well, Sherlock, there's a time and place for everything." Mycroft placed the finished puzzle down on the table and flexed his fingers."Tea?"

"Thought you'd never ask." Sherlock picked up the puzzle and turned it over in his large hands. It had been a pile of sticks when Gergory had brought it to his brother and now it resembled a well thought out design. Mycroft loved doing these 3 d puzzles and Sherlock thought that Gregory paid well for someone to specifically make them. "What will Gregory bring you next?" Sherlock looked up at his older brother but saw with some disappointment that Mycroft was not falling for his baiting.

"I haven't the faintest idea." Mycroft poured the strong heady rich tea and gave Sherlock his mug, Carefully, the Mage added 2 sugar cubes and stirred, inhaling the aroma.

"Aiden was to take John to the park commons. I thought the Elf might want to relax and watch the kites. There's a good wind today." Sherlock took a sip and swallowed, then suddenly looked down at his mug. His eyes grew wide and he started to shake, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Mycroft saw him, saw the first signs of what they called the Visions, and swiftly took the mug and set it down, then guided his brother back to the chair and leaned him against the cushions for protection. Sherlock's eyes were wide yet he did not see the present. His eyelids fluttered as though he was trying to shut them, trying to protect his sight from something horrific, which the Visions usually foretold.

"Ete lunaza rhizes rouhier...Ete lunaza rhizes rouhier....Ete lunaza rhizes rouhier..." Sherlock's eyes drooped open and his mouth went slack. He threw his head back and moaned, an ungodly sound that made Mycroft shudder. When his brother was gripped with this sight, Mycroft felt more than helpless.

:Sherlock...Sherlock..." Mycroft gently embraced his brother and rode out the storm, Sherlock repeating those 4 words over and over while his whole body shook and grew stiff and cold.

Mycroft lost track of time. It was only when Sherlock's legs rose and slammed suddenly against the table where their now cold tea was sitting did he realise that Sherlock was coming out of it. His brother was weak and his skin was clammy and when he opened and focused on his older brother, there were tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

"I...had....I...was..."

"Don't try to talk, Sherlock. Just breathe deeply. RIchard brought you some aromas." Mycroft offered the small cup of pungent herbs to Sherlock, who held them with shaking hands and drew them up closer to his nose. They were medicinal, created for this very purpose to help him regain his senses after the Visions. "There now....breathe..." Mycroft patted Sherlock's arm and tried to keep the worry off his face. He knew what Sherlock had said but he did not know what it meant.

"I....saw a red moon...."Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his curls which were sweaty and sproingy.

"Yes," Mycroft nodded. "Lunaza rhier. You said it rises?"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock froze and then gave a panicked look to his brother. "John! Where is John?"

"I presume he is with Aiden. They were to be back this afternoon." MYcroft frowned and checked his timepiece. Richard was hovering so Mycroft turned to him. "Aiden and the Elf...did they return?"

"Yes, Sire. About an hour ago. The Elf is in the library."

"Library." Sherlock stood, swaying. "Library? Why there? What is he doing there?"

"Looking for the Book, Master." Richard gave Sherlock a perplexed look, wondering why the sudden interest in the Elf. And what had a red moon, of which they had not been cursed with in some time now, to do with the Elf?

"No...we must...go..."Sherlock tried to walk but fell into Mycroft's arms. Richard hurried over to help Mycroft with his brother who seemingly had no bones in his body. Sherlock's skin was so sweaty and hot to the touch. Richard glanced worridly at Mycroft and the other man jerked his head towards the setee. Carefully they laid Sherlock out on it, making sure his head was cushioned. Weakly, Sherlock was protesting. "We must...go get the Elf, Richard. Please."

RIchard looked at Mycroft for clarification and Mycroft nodded. "Go. Send the royal physician as well."

"Nooo...not him...I don't need MEDICINE." Sherlock spit out the last word and again attempted to stand but Mycroft gently pushed him back.

"Regain your senses and then I will let you stand. As it is you are as weak as a gremlin without its elevensies."

"Comparing me to a gremlin. Really, Mycroft. Is that the best you can do?" Sherlock tried to organise his thoughts, though they seemed well scattered to the four corners of the earth. "John. We must get John."

"RIchard already went." Mycroft shoved a pillow under Sherlock's head and turned to open the door when he heard the knock. It was the royal physician, a fairly stuffy man with whom Sherlock had always argued and belittled.

"Oh Heavens, it's him." With an elaborate eye roll that hid his unsteadiness, Sherlock flounced down on the setee and pulled a pillow up in front of himself. "We are wasting time here. I have got to get to John. I was given a warning, don't you see."

"Now lean back and let me examine you, Sherlock." Dr. Steven Moffat took out his chestpiece from his leather bag and pushed the ends in his ears. Approaching the Mage with the other end held out, Moffat listened to Sherlock's heart and nodded.

"Am I to presume I am still alive?" Sherlock snarled, then with one fluid movement, was upright and walking to the door, all unsteadiness gone. "I need to find John. We are wasting our time." With that, he left the doctor and his brother staring at each other in the room.

 

John stared at the volumes of books on the shelves. Where would he find the elusive tome? Would it be big? Or small and pocket sized like some of the ones lining the bottom shelves? How could one person have so many books? John shook his head and began to pick his way through the very end shelf beside the door. He could read some of the titles, since Sherlock had cast the spell on him to understand the written word. John wondered if perhaps there was a spell that would enable him to understand what was being SAID to him. Reading was all well and good but in real life, communication was important. The Elf nodded his head in emphasis. Yes, very important to know what someone is saying to you. He wished that he could have talked to Aiden when they went to the city. He had so many unanswered questions and he thought that it would be simply splendid if Sherlock were to walk through that door. Maybe they could even ...kiss...again...

John blushed to himself as he thought of that and unconciously touched his lips with a fingertip. How gentle it had been and yet how much fire that kiss had put in his belly! The Mage was, however, complicated. Sometimes, the things he said made John angry. The ideas of ownership, for one thing. John belonged to nobody! Now if Sherlock was to properly court him...that would be a different story all together!

He heard a soft scuttle in the opposite corner of the room, where the shelves contained older volumes with confusing titles that John had not been able to even begin to decipher during his explorations the night before. Walking over to one of the shelves, John frowned a bit when he noticed that a large blueish coloured book had fallen from somewhere up above, so he bent to get it and as he did, he heard the door open slowly. Sherlock! The Elf turned and then felt his knees go weak.

"Hello Elf."


	11. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings and a confrontation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if I seem to bend characters a bit....it makes for more interesting writing...

Summers _in Meridia (nee Meridian) were usually cloudy and cool in the June Months because of the mountains and the altitude. Great green grassy parks, called commons, dotted the city and in those sunny days could be found the residents and visitors enjoying all kinds of sponsored things, such as art exhibits and amateur musicians playing folk tunes on the grounds. October Months held all kinds of weather, from snowfall to sometimes blistering heat. One day could be chilly; the next tinged with humidity that made people fan themselves to try to keep cool. It was on one such humid day in October Months, when Sherlock the Silver Mage was 10 years of ages, that Academy dismissed students and faculty alike to enjoy the day._

_"I don't want to fly kites. I cahn't stand to fly kites. I'd rather be down at the ole river lookin' at sallymanders and stuff. Why cahn't I go down to the banks myself?" Sherlock stood petulantly in front of a reclining Mycroft, his brother at 17, 7 years older. Mycroft's face was, as usual, buried in a book._

_"Sherlock, it's CAN'T not CAHN'T and don't drop your end consanants. Please don't ever say 'sallymanders' instead of salamanders and even then they are river newts."_

_"That does not explain why I cahn't..." Sherlock looked at Mycroft who merely raised and eyebrow. "CAN'T go to the river bank. I don't wanna...WANT TO...fly a kite. It's stupid."_

_"You are giving descriptive adjectives to inanimate objects, Sherlock." Mycroft yawned and closed the book. "Do be a good boy and run along. My attempt at having to...babysit...you and James is bordering on irritating."_

_"Baby....BABYSIT???" Sherlock sputtered and then kicked at a rock that had the misfortune of laying near his shoe. "Ok...." he picked up his kite, a multicoloured rectangle made of dryskin, a root that was commonly dug up, ground up, and tanned up then dyed very colourfully for this very purpose. Meridia's inhabitants loved their kites. "This don't have a tail." Sherlock's cupid bowed lips quirked into a smile as he watched and waited for his brother's reaction._

_"DOESN'T."_

_"Oh yeah. Well, Still, no tail. Do you have a couple of pence so I can buy some lightweight rag cut outs?" Sherlock turned the kite over and over in his hands. He was now interested in flying the kite. A plan was forming dangerously in his mind._

_"I happen to know you didn't eat lunch today even though Mummy gave you the money. So use your own....coinage..." Mycroft went back to his book, body turned now away from Sherlock who glared arrows through his brother's back._

_"Fine." Sherlock left with a flourish and flounced away, the idea that Mummy would make Mycroft watch him and his brother feeling more and more absurd every minute. And in his head, he promised himself that if he ever grew up to be 17 years old, like Mycroft, that he would be twice as obstinate and stubborn as his brother ever thought of being!_

_There was a crowd of boys at the gazebo and Sherlock stood on tip toes at the edge of the gathering to try to find his brother James, who, at 14, was just feeling a bout of rebellion. Already he had been kicked out of the highest Academy for troublemaking (something about blowing up a boiler and extorting a teacher, Sherlock had heard his Daddy say sadly), and now ran with a bunch who were older and meaner than James himself. Still, Sherlock knew James had a soft spot for him, often giving him spare pocket change and urging Sherlock to 'do the right thing" whatever that meant._

_"James!" Sherlock spotted his brother, who was in the middle of a throng of 4 other bigger tougher looking boys. He held a notebook in his hands and when he heard Sherlock's voice, he grinned and handed the notebook to one of his adoring lackeys._

_"Sherlock." James took Sherlock's kite and turned it over and over. "Whatever are you planning to do? Fly a kite?"_

_"Yes and I need some pence to buy some material to make a tail." Sherlock suddenly felt all eyes of the group of boys on him so he surreptiously sidled closer to his brother._

_"Let's see what I have..." James reached into his pocket and first pulled out a knife, a switchblade from the looks of it. This he handed to Sherlock who turned it over and over in his own hand, eyes wide. "Oh I am just keeping that for a friend. But she is a beauty isn't she Sherlock?" James turned a woofish grin on his younger brother, and standing side by side they couldn't be more different. Sherlock--tall, lean, none of the sharp definitions that would take over in later years surfacing on his face. He was by comparison a wide eyed skinny cherub with his tangle of darkish curls and myriad coloured eyes. James--skinny and restless, all quirks and bone and menace. Even at 14 he had a barracuda like look about him as though he was always thinking ahead of his next move, never wanting to stay in the present for too long. "Oops, a note...from...Katerina. She wants my big pole in her mouth." He snickered and his army of friends who had made a kind of circle around him also laughed._

_"Pole? What...are you talkin' about, James?" Sherlock asked innocently, eyelashes fluttering._

_"TALKING. My God, My would have a hemmorage to hear you slaughter the Mage's Language like that!" Then he bent low to Sherlock's ear and whispered. "My pole meaning my...what's between my legs, Sherlock. She's hot for me. SO hot."_

_"I don't know..."Sherlock felt his face get red. Sex was a subject he knew nothing about, ignoring the stage whispers of staff and fellow students, never really focused on getting together with a female or another male. He liked alone. Alone suited him._

_"Yes. I know. Pathetic." But James made the word sound all sympathetic and even patted Sherlock on his head, causing Sherlock to try to duck away from him. "SO. You need some money. Look. You are in luck. A pound and a pence." James made a great flourish of handing this to his brother, who accepted it and pocketed it. "And if I find out you have spent it in any other way than to make that kite tail, well, I wouldn't want to be you...Sherlock..." With that, James strode in to his circle of friends who closed rank around him, leaving Sherlock to feel like he was on the outside looking in, which he was._

_Sherlock went to the tent and bought a few strips of muslin for the tail then spent half an hour cutting and tearing the strips to tie around the long thin wire that was attached to the bottom of his kite. He was content to try and make it balanced, to look nice, to keep the tail as bright and showy as the rest of his kite. He liked being under the shelter of the elm tree with its long branches bending towards him, keeping the sun off his fair skin. He did not see his brother watching him nearby._

_James put his hand in his left pants pocket and felt the presence of the slingshot. He had been practicing, every day, first hitting inanimate objects, then graduating to birds and squirrels, anything that had a heartbeat that he could kill or maim. He found himself a natural. He tried to squelch the unnatural hatred for his brother but it was difficult at best. All his life, all 14 years of his age, he had had to listen to comparisons between him and Sherlock. How unfortunate, James, that you were not born with the Silver Cowl. How sad that you don't possess anything of what your brother had. Look at Sherlock. What a charmer. Too bad you're so UGLY ANDSTUPID ANDNONMAGICALJAMES!!! James shook his head, telling the voices to leave him alone. He had work to do, a plan to make, chance to come together and make his dreams come true. This very day. Was it the day? He hoped so._

_Sherlock watched his kite soar and bob and drift in the wind. He was enjoying this, even though he had at first been reluctant. He wanted his kite to be the best it could be, better than any other kites, going higher than anyone else's. And indeed if it had a little magic behind it, all the better. Spells and learning incantations were coming easier and easier to him when the old Druid came to teach. He was close now to the steep banks bordering the commons on one side. The very banks that were grassy but trecherously known to cave in to a man's weight especially after the rains, and none of the banks here had borders. Some places had fences but the kite flying arenas did not, as people thought that it spoiled the aesthetic beauty. Sherlock was mindful to keep just far enough from those banks, but being a child still, he could not have helped it if he gravitated that way as he watched his kite and the beauty of flight._

_James held the slingshot out and aimed, the rock at the end of it sharp and dangerous looking. James had polished the granite to a fine point and it was sharp enough to cut paper. Rather proud of his works in a devious way, James had to admit that he would make a fine villain some day. His brother Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, probably languishing in the shade reading one of his many textbooks. James preferred real life experiences compared to words on a page and had never had much time for the books in the library where Sherlock practically lived. Sherlock was close to the banks. James waited, watched and then inhaled. It was time. Drawing back the rubber band, James aimed and fired._

_Sherlock felt his right foot dance and weave as if there was no earth under him as his vision grew black as his feet left the grass as he was carried through a crowd of people and pain there was pain there was pain and there was nothing.... He's bleeding. Stop the bleeding! He's hurt. Did you see how close he came to falling? He lives a charmed life that boy!_

_"If I ever find who did this to my boy, I will go all monsterous on him or her." Mummy Holmes pressed the ice pack gently against Sherlock's temple, frowning at the raised angry lump that coloured his skin. "There, Darling, just hold it on there and I will get you something to drink. My poor baby."_

_"Mummy, wasn't Mycroft supposed to be watching Sherlock? What happened? Who would have done this to him?" James stroked Sherlock's arm and cursed silently. Of course the protection spell had kicked in making Sherlock immune to going over the bank and into the raging river. Sherlock was all magical. Didn't it figure?_

_"Oh I know, Darling. Maybe Mikey isn't the one I should have watch Sherlock."_

_"I could do it. I mean, we are closer in age and My will be leaving soon to go to university. I could do it. I could watch him!" James nodded eagerly, seeing the small flicker of concern light his mother's face and trying to squash the irritation with that._

_"We'll see. I'll talk to your Father. Now why don't you stay here and be with your baby brother until I come back with some soup."_

_"Of course, Mummy." He gripped Sherlock's hand a bit harder than he should, making Sherlock gasp a bit. "Don't you worry. I'll take good care of Sherlock."_

 

_\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

 "Who's there?" John frowned and tried to place the unfamiliar voice. And as if on cue, the books began to whirl off the shelves and build a sort of fortress around him, effectively pinning him in and not allowing him to peer through the many bound volumes.

"Oh my, the Books. The Books of course the Books." After a pause, the stranger continued. "My name is James." And after a few seconds, he followed that with a high pitched "Hi."

John began to wiggle and move but the books held him fast, not allowing him to see anything around him but inked pages. "My name is...well...John.......I was looking for a Book."

"THE BOOK perhaps? Oh yes...THAT Book....the one you're in and Sherlock found. Or rather, it found him."

"Yes well, I was....I can't find it. At least not yet. How do you know Sherlock?" John asked, pushing a rather annoying pocketsized book away as it fluttered around his head. It joined the pile behind his head and then gave him a solid thump, eliciting a sound from him.

"Are you all right, Elf? Need ...some help? But then again, the books seem to want to keep me away. Of course they do. because they're Sherlock's. Sherlock's Books. It's alllllll Sherlock."

John heard the menace in the voice, now clear and coming closer, and yet, the books held their ground. "Don't you like him? Sherlock, I mean?" The other man was close enough that John could smell him. Pine and grint mixed with ...horror....John's tongue turned metallic and he started to breathe faster.

  _red moon rising_

_red moon rising_

_red moon rising_

 

The books held fast. John clenched and unclenched his fists as he felt rather than saw the other man. He was on the other side of the book wall and as his smell permeated the room, John wished for air. fresh clean air, instead of this stagnant horror of breath. "Know this, John Elf of the Plains....I will burn those Books. I will BURN the HEART of those BOOKS. And then well...I'll burn you.....and then what will he have? Nothing. He can't keep you safe. I am...everywhere..."

"Who ARE you???" John yelled. But silence and a breath of fresh air met his nose. The man was gone. Gone. He felt his body go limp and realised he was sweating.

"JOHN!!! JOHN!!!"

The books began to fall around him and made a big circle around his ankles. He didn't mind their weight. He felt like he had been to war and he swayed and took in great breaths of air as he practically leaped into Richard's arms.

"Are you all right? Anything hurt?" Richard was setting him down on the floor in the hallway and trying to examine him.

"No, no, I'm fine. The books..." He took another deep breath feeling like he was drowning in oxygen. With some confusion on his handsome face he looked up at Richard, not really seeing the man.

"Nothing hurt then?"

"No." John shook his head trying to gather his wits.

"Who was ..menancing you?"

"His name is James. That's what he said." John stood up and realised his legs had gained their strength. "He was very creepy. He made the room feel...cold.."

"John, not could be James. Not James."

"No, that's what he said his name was. Wouldn't forget something like that." John shook his head. RIchard was regarding him with upraised eyebrows and a puzzled look. His mouth quirked in a kind of lopsided grin.

"John, no, it must been must have some one other than James for sure."

"I'm telling you..Richard..." John cocked his head and straightened his shoulders. "James was his name."

"It could have not been him, Elf."

"And why not? Tell me." John was now challenging the other man.

"James is dead."

 

_red moon...._

_rising..........._


	12. Thinking Out Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some reaction from the library meeting....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have left kudos and comments on this! I feel so blessed to have people like you guys actually read and enjoy this. Sincere bow.

Sherlock closed his bedroom door and leaned against it, facing his bed. There was the Elf--HIS Elf--looking worried and confused and just a bit pink faced, the colour not coming from being exposed to the sun. The Elf's eyes were dark and a shade of blue that Sherlock could only imagine being found in the deepest of seas, where the seafoam waves didn't drown out the darkest of colours. Sherlock met those eyes, that gaze, with his own and it was John who looked away first.

"Am I to believe that this man...this person who confronted me in the library ...is dead?"

"DId you see him?" Sherlock asked with a slight tilt of his head.

"No....no, the books blocked my view. One minute the books.... weren't there and the next they were."

"Must be the condensed versions. They are typically faster." Sherlock looked at John who was now smiling a bit, the gravity on his face leaving and being replaced with something easier. He looked better with a less worried look. His face worked itself out of the dark and more into the light, and this pleased Sherlock.

"Ha ha. Is that a joke?" JOhn cocked his head and leaned back on the duvet that covered Sherlock's huge bed.

"Yes, somewhat. What did you think? I am not used to joking." Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown about his slender body and started to walk towards where John was laying down. Sensing Sherlock's approach, John sat up and looked ...what...flustered.... Sherlock stopped his approach and took a step backwards as though it was something he did every day. "Still, I thought it clever."

"Clever, yes. You are." John smiled even broader and then hid his face in his hands. Sherlock noticed how small John's fingers were, and even though they were laced with the callouses of hard work, Sherlock quite fancied that they were so delicate and strong. "Well, you still haven't answered my questions."

"Sorry. You had questions?"

"Yes." John grew impatient. Was Sherlock being deliberately obtuse?

"Fire away." With a flourish that was far more theatrical than anything else, Sherlock whipped his dressing gown under his thin body and sat on the edge of the bed closest to where John was sitting. "That means you can ask me."

"I know that." John frowned a bit, his forehead wrinkling. He was staring down at those hands, the hands that Sherlock was so fascinated with. Sherlock cuaght his breath a bit and John looked up, curious now at hearing his breath hitch. "You ok?"

"Good. Yes. Fine. All is well. Okey dokey. Yep. Uh huh. Go on." Sherlock stared straight ahead.

"Well..." John paused and then went on. "The man who I encountered was James. He told me his name. I felt...strange when I saw--FELT---him because I didn't actually see him. The books wouldn't let me. And then when Richard came in, HE told me that James was DEAD."

"Dead is a relative term."

"How can you even say that? Dead is dead. When you're dead, you can't converse with the living nor can you...be a...menace..."

"I apologise if he menaced you. But I am glad the books took care of you." Sherlock acted like he was going to say something more and then sat forward with his shoulders slumped. "People believe that my brother is dead. My father prefers it that way. I don't share the sentiments. James is...just as alive as I am."

"Then why do people assume he is dead? Did he have an accident?"

"Accident." Sherlock echoed. "No, no accident."

"Then what?" John leaned over to where Sherlock was sitting and grasped one thin but surprisingly muscular arm. Sherlock turned towards John, and John noticed that there were tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. "Sherlock." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body, kneeling on the bed, trying to protect the Mage from whatever inner fits he was having. John had never before cared to even think about anyone else's feelings, save for his family's, and though this was new to him, he found it was easy to do. Sherlock ...was growing on him...

Sherlock took a deep breath and held on to John's hands that clasped around his waist. He felt the warmth of John's body and leaned back, inhaling John's rich smell, feeling John's small but firm body, reveling in the sensations of being close to the Elf. If this was all it took to bring him back to feeling, back to living, then Sherlock was ever grateful.

"I killed him, John."

"Sherlock." And then there was not another word between the 2 of them. John continued to hold on to Sherlock while Sherlock closed his eyes and thought of an old song that his grandfather used to sing to him on nights such as these, when Mycroft was ignoring him and James was more than a creeping shadow on the wall. Softly at first, and then with more pitch and strength, Sherlock sang the Olde Song, knowing the words by heart.

 

_Red Moon Rising.  
Red Moon Rising._

 

Hush John. Let me sing.

RedOut from many a mudwall cabin Eyes were watching thro' that night,  
Many a manly chest was throbbing For the blessed warning light.  
Murmurs passed along the valleys Like the banshee's lonely croon,  
And a thousand blades were flashing at the risin' of the moon.  
At the risin' of the moon, at the risin' of th moon,  
And a thousand blades were flashing at the risin' of the moon. Moon Rising. It was coming. It was coming.

 


	13. Down Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lies beneath the Palace? No...not the city...underneath...truly BELOW....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos. I am hoping to get out some of the chapters in my head!

Sherlock summoned RIchard to carry the ELf back to the Elf's quarters because after all, no matter how tempting, Sherlock knew he should not break the rules of Conduct by which his parents governed both him and Mycroft. John did not stir when Richard lifted him in his strong arms and quietly whisked him away, so sound asleep was he. And no matter that Sherlock had not been completely honest with John; the Elf would learn the secrets one day, just not tonight.

Sherlock bathed, the water though hot feeling quite squirmy next to his skin. Just the faintest idea of a lingering evil hung over the corridor, beginning from Sherlock's library, to just outside Sherlock's room. He wondered not for the first time that night if he should venture down to the Below but qickly dismissed that due to the hour of the night. As a Mage, Sherlock was always powerful but night time was when his aura would spike, creating more of a threat to those around him if Sherlock became angry. He knew his limitations and his Achilles' heel. He decided to just read for a while until the sensations went away. He shivered involuntarily and impatiently drew his duvet up around his thin shoulders. Suddenly he stopped and sniffed. Ohhh, the Elf had lain exactly here in this spot and the cover carried his heady scent. Sherlock brought the duvet up to his nose and then drew in a deep breath, his stomach twisting in interest while his cock lengthened and stiffened. Oh when they coupled it would be magical indeed. Sherlock had never had a lover. Love and the act of love making had never interested the Mage. Instead all of his energies and interests were spent on pursuing Magic and related topics. Sherlock also loved a great mystery and had solved some of the few crimes occurring in the City over the past few years. And he was always spot on with his deductions, a point of pride that often had him bragging about at boring state dinners and family get togethers. How dull sex had seemed to him at one time, before...the Book had shown John the Elf. Was it that the Elf was overtly attractive? Well, to some it may seem that way but to Sherlock, well, to Sherlock the Elf was sturdy and short and small and quick and golden from the sun (Now that was something to envy indeed since the merest touch of sunlight on Sherlock's pale skin would deepen a burn almost immediately. The Elf's hair was blondish, brownish, dark in some spots and light in others and curled around his sharp ear points and Elven ears as well as his shirt collars. When his nipples finally healed, Sherlock hoped to tug at them gently to feel the rings of gold in his hands, to teeth them perhaps and make the Elf sigh with surrender. Oh yes, Sherlock had plans for John but for now, Sherlock gathered his thoughts into order, read his book and sniffed at the duvet alone in his room at the highest point in the Palace.

 

 

**Drip. Drip. Drip. Water running down a mossy wall, creating rivers of brackish foul smelling puddles below on the stone floor.  Barely any light could get through the solid stones but that suited the sole inhabitant just fine. He liked alone. Alone was better than being with his family, better than dealing with stupid people who never understood him. He slunk about like a shadow, shadows having more substance. Food was plentiful here, delivered by a sort of dumb waiter pulley system and though he ate well, he never grew corpulent like the dukes and the duchesses and all the pithy fools who surrounded his family with their loyalty and their fake compliments. He did not know exactly how long he had lived Below, just that it was created especially for him by his brother, the SIlver Mage Sherlock. And at the very thought of that name, that face, that pure and bright image, all the things that he hated so hard because hard was a feeling and he embraced it with all of his twisted being came alive again and burned in his belly and in his sharp brain.**

**He retraced ihs footsteps from the adjoining hallway, leading Up, to his quarters which were spacious and comfortable by anyone's standards but because he lived there, the smell of fear and hate and illusion hung heavily in the air. No herbs of any magnitude could remove the stench of his own doing and that was how he liked it. Softly he sung to himself, hoping that a few melodic bars would drift Upwards to find a set of his brothers' ears.**

**"I'm just a poor prince whose intentions are good..oh please..don't let me be misunderstood..."**

**Oh that was delightful. He was sooooo misunderstood. Sherlock had tried to kill him. He hadn't succeeded of course. Poor Sherlock. Smart Sherlock. MAGICAL Sherlock. Ooooo. Magical. Yes, so magical and so bright. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and sat down at his desk. So what was he exactly? Outcast? Yes. Banished? Yes. Although he had the opportunity, like he had done tonight, to have a foray Up. Misunderstood? Oh yessss....sooooo misunderstood. He pounded his fist on the broad desk before him. NOBODY understood him. Not Mycroft either. Mycroft was a lot like Sherlock. Two peas in a pod only MYCROFT wasn't MAGICAL!! No,he lacked that, he scoffed.**

**Loneliness was a disease afflicted on the pure. He was not nor ever would be lonely. He had his thoughts. They protected him, nurtured him, drew him Beneath like some kind of mad sucking black sea and he loved to feel it swirling around him. But the Elf. Ah, now THAT was interesting. Sherlock liked the Elf. Had chosen him even and sent the most brave, the most loyal Warrior to kidnap him and bring him to Sherlock and Meridian. (Oh how he hated that shortened version's name of his beloved city). Oh but the Book had something to do with it, Sherlock and his precious books. How they had protected the Elf this very night when he could have...**

**At this thought, the evil surfaced and threatened to consume him. In a mad fury, he tipped over his desk and threw his papers about his abnormally tidy room. He would damn his family and especially his brother to hell for this! Sometimes he thought death was better but he was a survivor with a purpose. Yes, a purpose now that the Elf was there. The Elf was Up. And nobody could guard him all the time. There would be moments, he thought almost lovingly. Moments in time.**

**He straightened his tie and then stood, surveying the mess before him. And with great purpose and dignity of movements, he began to straighten things to exactly his liking.**

 

 

John was deeply asleep and dreaming. He was standing in front of the waterfall and looking at the swirling mists and absolute phantasms of the blue green water with the speckled foam moving about the craggy rocks. He wondered not for the first time if someone would survive a plunge off the precipice and shuddered to think that. He drew up the blankets a bit more, eyes tightly shut, chest even with the falls and rises of his breathing. As he walked along the path by the falls he smelled moss, although it was not the pleasant woodland or plains moss he remembered. This was damp and stagnant and foul, tinged with bitters and disappointment. One leg kicked out under his covers, uncurling from his small body as he tried to run and get away from the shadow that was threatening to fall over him. Consume him, it said. Eat him and grind his bones, came the evil wicked laughter that puckered his skin and made him cry out.

"Plalala. Sudestmoi." Plains Elven. Help. Save me. His language, the words of his own Elven brothers who had turned their backs on him and left him to face the smell, the dark, the shadows.

"I will come for you, Elf." The shadows were hissing, the voice resonant and dripping with blood and steel. "And when I do, you will have nowhere to run. No books to protect you. No SHERLOCK to save you. You will die in my arms. Dead. Cold. Alone. Taken."

John screamed and sat upright on the bed, his face and body covered with sweat and tears. He was alone! He clambored off the bed and rushed to find a light but in his haste, he fell and hit his leg against the edge of the dresser. With a startled cry, he drew his leg up against his body and started to rub  it, ignoring the warm liquid that was oozing down into one eye, through his hair. He drew the air in with great draughts of breath and was aware not for the first time that night that he was whimpering.

"John!!!" Sherlock was beside him, kneeling and drawing him close. The Elf was bloody and sweaty and hysterical. As soon as the Mage held him with arms tightly around him, the Elf stopped shivering and allowed himself to be caressed with gentle hands. "Just a dream. Just a dream."

"It was so real. I heard--"

"Yes, I know. I must tell you the truth, Elf. But not tonight. We will save that for tomorrow, in the light, in the sun." Sherlock nodded to a waiting Richard to pick John up, which the Elf allowed, holding on to his head and looking quite bewildered and small. "Come. Let Richard take you to see Dr. Moffat. He'll fix you right up and then we will have some jam and toast."

"I don't want jam and toast. I want to go home." John stubbornly stuck his jaw out causing the Mage to frown.

"Come now, John, we both know that is impossible. You're here to stay. You're mine."

"SOMEONE wants to KILL me, Sherlock! And put me down. I am not a terrier to be carried about!"  
Richard looked at Sherlock who sighed and nodded. The ELf could be very stubborn indeed.

"But do come with me. We must see to your head." Sherlock began to usher John into the hall, one hand on the Elf's back.

"Your brother..is it?....is alive, isn't he? John asked, suddenly stopping. Sherlock paused before answering with a curt nod. "Then you lied to me, about killing him."

"No, I didn't, John. He's dead. We buried his body." Sherlock stared at John with those eyes of kaliedescope colours. When the Elf looked challenging at him, Sherlock nodded once more. "It's his hate that keeps him alive. Now come. You need some medical attention."

John followed after Sherlock, trying his best to get the voice and the smell out of his head and nose. It was one thing to be threatened by a person. It was truly an incredible feat to be challenged by a DEAD one. This place kept getting stranger and stranger. And, John thought with a shudder, more deadly.


	14. Calm Before A Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some fluff between John and Sherlock....to break up the tension...

It was almost noon by the time John woke up, safe in his bed in the Palace, the dragonfly mobile hanging over him from the ceiling. He wondered again why someone had chosen this motif for him, for his room. It was colourful he had to admit it, but odd that he of all people should have something like that directly above his bed. He had lived a good many years in his own house and never had a mobile before. Frowning, he gave it a tap with a gentle finger and watched it as it bobbed and weaved around.

"Ok." He slid out of bed, wincing a little when the skin pulled around the bandage above his right eye. It was a silly wound, John thought, made all the more silly because he had received it from his own clumsiness. Still, he remembered that dream and suddenly the bright sunshine outside his window did not seem warm enough.

"Ah, Elf, you are awake."

John looked up from where he was contemplating his leg, trying to see the bruise from hitting the wardrobe or the dresser, whichever one he had smacked. The voice was completely unfamiliar and so was the speaker.

"What do you want?" John asked in a surly tone. He didn't know this person and even more peculiar was the person had greeted him in his own Elven Plains language.

"I have come to assist you in dressing. You are to have luncheon with the Royal Family." The man, averagely built with blue eyes and a soft looking fuzzy light brown beard moved forward towards John and extended a suit of some kind. It hung on a hanger of glass. "This is what you will wear."

"What if I don't want to wear that?" John asked, cocking an eyebrow. The man was nonplussed. He simply continued to hold the suit on the glass hanger outwards away from himself and smiled. "Oh fine. Alright. You win. But it better not have cut outs for my....my...no cutouts in the front or it's a no go." John nodded and headed towards his bathroom. "I need a wash and a shave and then I will be out." Pausing, John turned and looked at the smiling man. "How is it you know my langauage? Or did Sherlock put a spell on you, too?"

"I am familiar with 140 different languages."

"Oh. Well. Good for you. And what's your name?"

"Anderson," the man replied brightly.

"Anderson. Ok. Carry on then. This won't take me long." John ducked into the bathroom and did exactly what he had said he was going to do and when he was through, he wrapped up in a towel and peeked out the door. "I need my pants. Will you get them for me?"

"Here you are." Anderson did not look and instead held out the small pants with one finger extended on the waistband.

"Thank you." John took them, shut the door and put them on, tucking away his privates. As he turned to go out of the room, he caught his reflection in the mirror and stopped, pausing to look at the Elf who stared back at him. Oh, his hair was getting bushy and long. He needed a hair cut! The small curls threatened to overwhelm the points of his ears, those points that he was so proud of, for his points were defined and cut, not stunted or in any way smallish. His skin had paled without the sun's rays and his mouth was set in a straight determined line. Sighing, John continued out the door and took the suit from Anderson. "I will need your help in getting this fancy thing on."

"Of course, Sir."

 

Thirty minutes later, John stood resplendent in a dark blue suit with cream coloured accents. His chest was in fact covered--no peepholes there--which he was relieved about and after some careful and artful arranging of his hair by Anderson, his bandage was mostly hidden. He stood next to Richard, who had appeared a few minutes ago and extended an arm, which John had taken and the 2 walked down to the Royal Dining Room, adjacent to the Ballroom where John had first been revealed. John took a deep breath and tried to still the shaking of his knees when he entered the ornate room where a large oaken table was resplendent with dishes and silver. Amazing smells filled his nose! John looked at Richard, who towered above him a good 8 inches but Richard just nodded kindly and indicated that John sit in a large chair next to Sherlock, whose gaze was fixed on John.

"Enjoy your dinner, Richard. You and Anderson have the use of the billiards room." Sherlock's eyes, now green, now blue, now silver shone at John as he spoke.

"Thank you." With a courtesy bow, Richard was gone, leaving the Elf with Sherlock, Mycroft, and the King and Queen.

Dinner was delicious. John was grateful that his plate was full of juicy well cooked prawns and rice and carrots. He followed Sherlock's lead as far as what implement to use to eat with, and apparently was doing well enough on the manners front. The King did not speak to him, but only smiled, and John could not help but return the smile. The Queen asked him some questions using Sherlock as an interpreter, but they were just run of the mill types, like did he like it here? (yes he did and wanted to see more of the Palace and the city). Was every need met? (Yes, fine thank you.) How did he get hurt? ( Bad dream and fell out of bed. A bit clumsy is all.) Sherlock grew impatient sometimes and he and his mother would talk, with Mycroft interjecting, but John had no idea of what they were saying. He thought it rude but kept that opinion to himself. He was, after all, a guest at their table...

 

"Sherlock." John tried to keep up with the Mage, who was walking in an impatient trot towards the stairwell. When the taller man did not stop, John repeated his name again but still no reaction. Finally, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him to a stop. The Mage whirled and looked at John, exasperation on his handsome face.

"What. Elf? Why do you slow me down?"

"Because...because I..." John drew in a deep breath feeling somewhat irritated himself. "I went to dinner and sat there all prim and proper like, being on good behaviour and trying to understand why is it that when it suits you, you trot me out like a filly on a race day, display me, and then want to walk away from me like I don't matter any more."

"Clearly you have the wrong idea, Elf." Sherlock's tone bordered on annoyance yet John felt compelled to press on.

"No. I think it's you...who ...has the wrong idea, Sherlock. Do you want me or not? Or am I just....something to put on a shelf and have you ignore me until you see fit to parade me around?" John's jaw jutted out stubbornly and as he looked up at Sherlock, He drew in a deep breath.

"I could turn you into a chicken." Sherlock said this very seriously but his eyes, oh his eyes were full of mirth. His body was relaxed and he stepped towards John. "Tell you what. I will let you come with me. I might need your help with an experiment."

"As long as it doesn't involve me scratching the ground or flapping my wings you're on."

"Come on then!" Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him up the stairs and down several long corridors until they were at a large green door that was bolted with a huge shimmering padlock. John stared at the padlock, wondering why it seemed like it was moving and was curious as to what kind of key could even open such a door!

"Sherlock? What's this...room?" John stepped back and studied the shimmering image in front of him.

"Oh nothing." Sherlock closed his eyes,  waved his hands about a bit and the padlock, if it did exist, and John wasn't sure it was real, fell off with a soft thud. "Just my private laboratory. I keep it spellbound so MYCROFT (he sneered his brother's name) can't poke around." With a gentle hand on John's back, Sherlock ushered the Elf inside.

The room was amazing. It was colourful and crowded with sheafs of paper and parchment, ink barrels overflowing and spilling onto the stone floor, and more mobiles hanging up, all of them dragon themed. John's eyes could not take in everything at once. There was a desk, almost groaning under test tubes and petri dishes, some full, some sprouting, and more papers. Books were thrown here and there. A large aquarium sat on a window well and in it looked to be some fat fishes of some kind, all white and orange striped. On the walls were more papers, some with drawings some with just curious writing. Sherlock seemed proud of his laboratory and quickly walked over to one of the windows and peered outside.

"Come here, John. Look down here. You can see where the spray hits the rocks as it goes over the falls."

John edged closer, peering out the large heavily tempered window, and gasped as he saw that indeed this room was at the very top of the falls, and down below was the whirlpool where the water swirled and foamed.

"Sherlock!" John's voice was a whisper but his tone was reverent. "That is...amazing..."

"So it is, John." There was a hint of a proud smile tugging at Sherlock's lips and John couldn't help but grin up at him.

"I have never seen...anything like this." John held out a hand to the window, palm flat against the glass. He felt the vibrations of the water against his hand and he drew in a sharp breath. This was more magical than all the potions in this room! Suddenly the Elf felt Sherlock's presence behind him. Warm breath on his neck and then suddenly a pair of lips cast a small kiss on his skin. John shuddered and turned, looking up at the now impossibly warm eyes that held him captive. "Sherlock." Not a name, more of a whispered desire and suddenly there was nothing in the room except the Mage and his scent and his eyes and his dark curls that were messily unkept along his shoulders and his collar. John tilted his head up and closed his eyes because it just seemed so ...right....

They kissed. Sherlock kept his lips gentle as a breeze against his Elf's lips. There was a quick coupling and then Sherlock gripped John's arms and drew him closer, kissing him again on those slightly chapped lips, this time harder and with greater purpose. Sherlock felt John's lips open so he ran his tongue along the bottom lip, then gained entrance to that hot mouth and explored, hugging the Elf to him and forcing John to open up more to his demanding twisting tongue. John was still for a second, then boldy began to use his own tongue tip to slowly dance along Sherlock's bottom teeth. This was madness. Sherlock felt his passion begin to grow and knew he needed to step back but still they kissed more, longer, deeper. Tongues met and entwined then broke apart and stabbed with stucatto thrusts. John let Sherlock push him against the window, and the thrum of the water made a pleasant backdrop on his spine and neck. Insisent hands reached under the jacket John wore.

"No, Sherlock...no..."

"Let me do this...please.." More like a command, less like a plea. Sherlock's long fingers were cool against John's skin and with a start the Elf realised that Sherlock must have pushed his shirt somehow aside because suddenly hands were finding his nipples, still sensitive with the new piercings. John moaned around Sherlock's hot mouth but did not pull away. Those maddening fingers were gentle yet firm and John felt the rings being pulled just ever so much, causing deep bolts of desire to course through his small body.

"Oh...oh...oh..." Little moans were now mewling to Sherlock's administrations. John's mouth was hot, open, molten. Sherlock moaned deep in his throat and impatiently stopped rubbing John's nipples and drew his hands out of the shirt, only to prop John's legs up and around his own thighs, holding on to John by John's thighs, feeling the muscles under the silky blue fabric as Sherlock thrusted forward with his tented crotch. John again made a series of little sounds, propelled with Sherlock capturing his mouth for yet another deep kiss, their lips sealed together and tongues dueling. Sherlock throbbed with need. His cock arched against his own pants. He wanted the Elf, this Elf who drove him mad with desire and heat.

John began to caress Sherlock's firm ass, his hands unsure at first then bolder. He stroked and pulled Sherlock forward until their crotches were grinding together, and their lips were still locked in tandem. Thrusting now, rutting unabashed. Sherlock and John pushed against each other and suddenly John drew away and closed his eyes, shuddering as he came. Sherlock watched, loving the Elf's open mouth and arched neck. Leaning forward, Sherlock nipped a red mark into the tight flesh of his throat and John moaned, still heavy with arousal even though his orgasm was done.

"My turn now." Sherlock pushed hard against John pushing his body to the window, holding his legs up and meeting his crotch. The waves of want were hitting him over and over and Sherlock began to pant with need. John reached down between them and tentatively rubbed Sherlock's bulge, causing the Mage to gasp and stop then suddenly tumble forward his head against John's shoulder, body jerking with his own orgasm, taking his pleasure and feeling it wrap around him.

They were still momentarily. John caressed Sherlock's hair, whispering nothing important to him and sneaking soft kisses on the top of the Mage's head. Sherlock sighed and carried John over to a couch that was the only thing in the room not full of papers or experiments. There, he lowered John into the soft cushions and sat down beside him, kissing him tenderly. They stayed like that for some time, not speaking, but just breathing in the scent and feel of each other, knowing there was more ahead to explore.

 


	15. Rain Falls Down On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dark. If you are disturbed by violence and/or suggested rape please skip this chapter....

It had been 2 days since Sherlock had sent for or seen the Elf and John was growing quite restless. There was only so much he could do in his room, and although RIchard and Aiden had brought him books written in his own language, art materials for sketching, and pen and paper for writing, it was not enough. The truth was...he missed Sherlock, and after the heated encounter they had shared, John was literally aching for more.

"It's simply ridiculous," he huffed out loud, looking at his reflection in the mirror in his room. Oh he needed a hair cut or trim in the worst way as the waves were coaxing into curls and his ear points had all but disappeared under the flaxen coloured locks. "And look at you, John. You resemble...a girl." One eyebrow cocked and he smiled crookedly at himself. Of course, nobody answered him, and if someone had, then John would have known there was magic afoot and expected Sherlock. But Sherlock...was not there.

Impatiently, John grabbed his jacket, a dark blue royal waist coated styled corduroy blend that looked, Sherlock had told him, 'smashing.' If the Mage was not going to come to see him, then John would find the Mage. He walked to his door, half expecting it to be locked but he opened it without any problem, and peeked out down the long hallway. No activity. Not strange, he thought. It was lunchtime and even Richard and Aiden took their breaks to eat. Ignoring his own tray of food that sat outside of his door, John started towards the stairway that he knew led up to the lab and library, where Sherlock was likely to be.

As he walked, hand trailing along the wooden wainscoting in the hall, John thought again about his situation. It wasn't a bad place, here in Meridia. Sherlock had promised to take him to the Games on the upcoming Saturday and for that, John was very excited. He wanted to see Gregory battle, as well as some of the other men he had casually met in his trips into the City, and he very much wanted to wager a small bet. The thought of perhaps winning some coins excited him, and since he also knew nobody really got hurt in the battles, this made the idea of a wager just a bit more interesting. It was all for entertainment, although people certainly took it seriously. Hero worship to the Warriors was unprecedented, Richard had told him, on any other city besides theirs. And when another team of Warriors came to battle and compete, the stadio was ALWAYS full. Standing Room Only, Aiden had chimed in. It was a reach to get 2 tickets together to see a Saturday spectacle if one did not have Season's Passes.

 His journey had taken him to the other end of the hallway. John had reached the stairwell and was just about to turn to go up stairs when he heard his name being called.

It was Sherlock! John felt the excitement grow and couldn't help but smile. What he was doing DOWNSTAIRS was beyond the Elf's reasoning, but perhaps he was also looking for John, just like John was looking for him. Feeling smug in the knowledge that the Mage actually wanted to see him again, John ran down the winding staircase, following the sound of Sherlock's voice.

 

James smiled. He was prepared for this, had planned for this, had even dreamed of this. (OK, maybe not DREAMED of it, but had certainly thought it well out in advance.) He drew his tie into a comfortable Windsor knot and moved this way and that to look at himself in the mirror. Oh he was a handsome devil, more so than his brother Mycroft, with the features of a Mountain Ostrich and much much better than his youngest brother, Sherlock, who resembled a River Otter. No doubt about it, he was impeccable this evening and ready to bring down the house. Not literally, of course. But there'd be tears, he knew. And sadness. And sorrow. And poor John would hardly know what to do after he got done with him. And then Sherlock..well, Sherlock would cry buckets and buckets and rivers and rivers. His face would resemble the waterfall! That image pleased James and he turned it over and over in his head.

Motioning to the giant who stood hunched in the shadows, James opened the heavy door to his chambers and poked his head out. Sherlock must be so busy preparing for the Red Moon in 3 days that he had forgotten James. No matter. After tonight, well, Sherlock would remember this night for quite some time. James could hardly contain his glee at the prospect of seeing the Mage brought to the breaking point.

"Come, Golem.  And remember. No thinking on your own. You will do what I tell you to do. Are we clear on that?" James looked at the 7' creature he had conjured from the discarded spell book. Golem nodded, although with some difficulty. "I should have made you a bit more flexible." James raised his eyebrows and saw the monster was staring at him with empty eyes and no sense of comprehension on that. "Yes, ok, well, shuffle along. We have some work to do and it starts with the Elf."

With that, they stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up, James with a beady eyed stare and the Golem with those dead eyes. "I hear him. Wait. Watch this." James cleared his throat softly and then concentrated on his youngest brother. The pitch, the way he spoke the Elf's name, the regal accent that seemed to tumble from those cupid bow shaped lips of his--James had to recreate that.

"John!" James stepped back and nudged the Golem. He looked at the Monster and winked. Oh his rendition of Sherlock's voice was spot on. Spot on and exact. "John!" Waited. Held his breath. Hoping.

Soft footfalls on the stairs now. The Elf had taken the bait. James pushed the Golem into the darkness and listened as John crept closer to his waiting fate. Oh this was too easy.

"Sherlock! This...is a long way down. What are you doing here? Growing mushrooms? And you'd better have something for me to eat, because..." John rounded the last set of stairs and stopped, puzzled, with what he saw.

"Because? Because why? Are you hungry, Elf? Hungry for...I dunno..ADVENTURE?"

"James." John sighed and looked around. Here was the middle brother, the one who Sherlock told him was dead, and buried but looking quite alive and spry right now, this very minute in front of John. He was dressed in a black suit that fitted him exactly, right down to  the tie around his neck.

"Oh yes. And look around you. No books to protect you. Looks like you're all by yourself, Johnny." James smiled and it was full of evil. John took a step backwards his hand still on the rail, his one foot trying to find the stone step at the very bottom of the set.

"Well you're just annoying. Not dangerous. I am NOT scared of you." John said defiantly, sticking out his jaw.

"No." James sighed and took out a handkerchief from his pocket. He made a big show of mopping his brow and staring at John with black eyes. "You shouldn't be SCARED of me...." James motioned for the Golem to come out of the shadows and at this, John stopped and his eyes widened with horror. "It's Golem you should be afraid of."

With that, James turned and walked towards the heavy door from which he had emerged to lure John down the steps. "Do your best to insure that John here has a good time, Golem. Remember what I taught you. And John? Tell Sherlock this one's for him."

John heard the heavy door swing shut and was suddenly aware that he was being lifted off the ground, feet kicking helplessly in the air. The Golem leaned in to regard John and the Elf suddenly had the strong urge to vomit his meager breakfast.

Dead eyes. Dark. Twisted. Patched. Lifeless. Evil. Scarred and sewn worse than Frankenstein from the Olde Books. John struggled but the Monster held him fast and easily and then suddenly propelled the Elf to the floor, stone hitting the back of John's head making him see stars and causing his stomach to lurch. He wondered very briefly if there was blood but the monster was on top of him, ripping his clothes and scratching at his skin. John screamed but it was cut short by stiff long yellowish fingers smelling of rot and mold being shoved into his mouth and reaching down his throat. He had never struggled so hard in his life, and yet here he was, trying to buck against the suffocating smell and clench of a monster who had no eyes. The fingers scraped his throat and his lips as they moved away and John drew in a  deep breath, trying to maintain his sanity while he lay there now naked on the floor, the remnants of his clothes all around him, in shreds and pieces.

"please ..please don't...please..." John heard his own voice so soft and small and yet the Golem seemed nonplussed. If it could grin it did then looking at John with soulless eyes and stitched face. A huge hand pushed on his chest, throwing the Elf back against the cold stone, causing bruises that would flower soon in vivid reds and blues on his back and buttocks. The stench of death and mold filled his nostrils and he tried to squelch the scream that was rising that was threatening to spill out of his mouth and the monster as if understanding at last what it was doing, covered John's mouth again with those cold dead fingers.

Struggling now, trying to pinch or kick or hit anything that he could reach, John fought for his life. He knew in the back of his mind what was going to happen and he fully intended to resist, to make this thing stop and go back from where it came. Useless. John was pinned to the floor and sobs filled his ears. Those were his, weren't they? The black seemed to fade from his eyes, bringing that terrible face into view and his stomach rebelled, causing his to lurch forward and vomit all over the front of himself, although it was mostly mucous and phlegm. He was calling out, appealing to the Gods to help him, to do something to save him this time because there were no magic books and no Mages to get him away from this thing from the grave.

Legs forced open. Pinned down by weight so hard that his breath was uneven and came in gasps. Air was hard to come by. John pushed still, throwing his legs up and trying to kick but getting nothing but fingers over his mouth, over his nose and not being allowed to breathe. Suffocating Drowning Falling.

Pain. Such terrible hurting sharp pain and brute force taking him burning him pounding him like a fire in his loins like a hot log like a cold coil in his insides like a sharp knife cutting through to his soul like a well that was dry like a bird that broke its wing like a red moon rising and he screamed inside of his head because he could not hear himself no he was not there it was someone else who felt dead felt dead and dark and rotted and pain and red moon and the red moon was in the sky and it rose and blotted out the sun

 

Dampness. Cold. The Elf lay there, fully disassembled, like his bones were not fitting his body. Blood pooled under his head and under his naked buttocks, turning the dusty stone rusty in colour.  A faint pulse beat at his neck but it was hardly noticeable. Somewhere inside of that head was John the Elf, Chosen of the SIlver Mage, but right now, he was nowhere to be found. James looked at the pale body and then experimentally poked one of John's legs with the toe of his shoe. No reaction. With a sigh, James then turned to the Golem who was shuffling next to the wall, empty dead eyes regarding nothing.

"Well done." James sarcastically applauded, the sounds of his clapping bouncing off the wet putrid smelling walls. "But I am afraid that your time here is short." James nodded to no one but himself as he produced, with a theatrical flourish, a pack of sulfur sticks from his breast coat pocket. "A real pity we have to say goodbye. I think John the Elf really LOVED making your acquaintance." A stick was lit with a scratch against the rough stone floor. James frowned, pretending to be sad, then brightened all in the space of a few fleeting seconds. "I might say that you...have met your match. Bye bye." Tossing the stick at the Golem, James walked away and felt rather than saw the explosion of evil and putrid rotten summonings as the heat burned the Golem into nothing.

To the figure still lifelessly laying on the floor, James paused. "Have a nice sleep, John. You're probably exhausted after that little adventure!" He then slammed the door shut and locked it.

 

Curious thing. Sometimes, when our bodies have had too much they shut down and retreat into survival and focus on nothing but increasing adrenaline for flight or fight response. When the brain triggers it has had enough, that the trauma or events happening are too much to even understand, then the brain allows repose, in the form of unconsciousness. John drifted in that state. He was not aware of the cold or the way his legs were splayed out from his body. He had no recognizance of the blood oozing and pooling behind his broken head and buttocks. His body temperature was dropping, cooling, as much in becoming comatose as it was in the air temperature around where he lay.

Drip drip drip drip. Water ran down the stone walls. Alone. Cold. Hurt. Broken.


	17. Angels Fall Like Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock the Mage finds John, there is only one logical solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for hanging in there over the weekend. Your comments and kudos are lovely!

_**Drip** _

_**Drip** _

_**Drip** _

Sherlock sighed and pushed an unruly curl out of his eyes, then went back to holding the syringe over the petri dish. He had a steady hand and as he carefully added 2 drops of the brown liquid from the syringe on to the green fuzzy wet mold, he heard a satisfying hiss as the dish contents dissolved. He turned towards his desk and grabbed his work journal, hurriedly writing the results in his looping handwriting.

_**Drip** _

_**Drip** _

_**Drip** _

Dammit! His head was full enough without hearing the steady drone of something from the outside!! Impatiently, Sherlock set aside the syringe and perched cross-legged on the stool so he could finish his findings in the journal. His work was important to him and that...that noise was making him extremely and utterly impatiently angry.

**_Drip_ **

**_Drip_ **

**_Drip_ **

"All right then!" Sherlock shouted out loud, extremely annoyed that the sound in his head had tried his patience to the point of reaction. "What do you want? I am listening!" He ruffled up his moppy curls, slender big hands destroying any semblance of neat. "Well? I am waiting!"

**_Drip_ **

**_Drip_ **

**_Red_ **

**_Red_ **

**_Red_ **

Sherlock gasped out loud and reached out a hand to steady himself against the table. The world was suddenly spinning and he fought it trying to gain some control over his whirling head.

"No!" he gasped. "No!! Not here! Not now!" Sherlock held his head and scrunched his eyes shut, hard, seeing the blackness before him, hearing the screams of someone so far off now, so distant, but close, ever closer. A blanket of red, or was it just because he was trying not to see, washed over him and he felt the dizziness clutch him like an overeager mother and the stab of pain that hit his heart. And then it became clear.

"John..." Sherlock whispered.

Off the stool, open the door, down the stairs. Descending with arms all akimbo and his heart beating like it was a cannonball being shot out of chest. If he could have heard himself, he would have been ashamed of the bare sobs that left his throat as he went down down down until he stopped. It was cold. Dark and cold and moist and mean.

Nearly black iris coloured eyes regarded the scene in front of him. In the corner, a pile of rotten ash, smoking still, and giving off a foul stench that made his nose threaten to close up. One step more and he was almost to the very bottom. In front of him lay the Elf.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Sherlock practically leaped the rest of the way and looking like an ungainly bird, settled down next to where John lay, still and barely breathing. His hands felt heavy and leaden and he blinked back the tears as he surveyed the carnage that was before him. Gently he picked up one of John's legs and placed it closer to the other. He broke off a sob when he took his hand away and saw it was covered with rich sticky dark blood. Murmuring to himself, Sherlock threw off his suit jacket and laid it gently over John's nakedness, trying to figure out how long the Elf had been there and what needed to be done. He was too far Down to call for help because someone needed to actually be ON the stairs to hear. Dammit, this was so wrong but he could not let his temper pull a red curtain over his eyes, over his thoughts. He needed neat. He needed orderly. He needed to THINK. How could he, though, when his love, his ELF lay almost dead and damaged?

Sherlock gently raised John's upper body, slipping an arm under the smaller man's back and shoulders and held him closely to his own breast. He was willing John to take his warmth and safety! Please, let him take it, Sherlock thought. I won't have him with me if he ends this.

John's eyelashes fluttered and he opened his eyes and stared right at Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock hissed, holding the elf tighter to him.

John began to scream. It was an unearthly sound that made Sherlock's skin actually raise with goose bumps. It was hollow and reedy and terrified.

"Shhhhh.. "Sherlock muffled John's face against his own shirt. "You are safe now. I will take you to my bed and you can sleep, my Elf."

Still John screamed. He began to thrash against Sherlock with a strength that shocked the Mage. Arms and legs were striking and kicking. John's eyes snapped shut and he kept up the mournful keening while Sherlock tried desperately to reassure, to hold, to make John realize that he was safe!! It was a losing battle. John was no more present now than he had been when he was being raped by the Golem.

Sherlock stood and let the small Elf thrash on the floor. There was only one option left to him and he knew he had to call them down now before John would slip away and never come back to him. With great intent, Sherlock closed his eyes and knelt beside John, taking care to just hold his one hand in his own, feeling how cold and how rigid John's fingers were as they clawed helplessly against Sherlock's grip.

"Take him take him take him take him take him..." Over and over Sherlock chanted, never wanting or needing anything so desperately in his life. He focused on John's hand, on John's screams, on the way John was trying to move his broken limbs around to get away. "Take him take him take him take him..." The Mage's eyes were closed against the sight of his damaged Elf.

Suddenly ...quiet. Something tickled Sherlock's hand. He opened his eyes and saw one silver feather in his palm.

John was gone.

No blood.

No ripped clothing.

No remains of the monster that had attacked the Elf.

Nothing remained. Nothing left.

Sherlock stood and picked up his suit jacket and shrugged it on his lean frame. He glanced at the door a few yards from the stairwell; it appeared tightly closed.

War was coming. The Red Moon was on Sherlock's side. It was rising.

All he had to do was wait.

 

 

 


	18. I Remember You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up is only part of the process.

_Jooohhhhnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_Jooohhhhnnnnn!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_John! Come to the shore! I can barely see you! You are going to get stung by an eel! Get BACK here, John!!! I don't want to  have to tell your father  that you are not listening to me._

_John held his breath and pushed down into the water. He kept his big dark blue eyes open, fascinated by the fanning lilies that grew in the lake along the west end, their tethers holding them strong to the silty bottom. They waved their leaves at him like a small crowd of green giants and as he watched and bobbed around them, a small blue and grey fish came swimming out of the stalks and stopped in front of the young Elf._

_Suddenly, his concentration was broken by a strong hand on the collar of his shirt, pulling up at him so he was rising to the surface. Resentfully, the Elf tried to squirm away but the hand was strong and just as determined as John was, and so he rose out of the water and found the bottom with his bare feet._

_"Didn't you hear Mother calling to you? She's worried you will drown." His older sister stood in front of him, dripping wet and flushed cheeks, wearing an imperious look._

_"This water is shallow, Harry. I won't drown in less than 2 feet of water!!!" John scowled and adjusted his shirt which was in danger of falling off of his small sinewy frame. At 8 years of age, he was feeling his independence and wanted nothing more than to explore without his parents, especially his MOTHER, and his sister worrying about him. "I can take care of myself." John kicked at a small pile of sand and jumped back in surprise when a scuttling crab worked its way out of the heap and began to take a sideways route to the edge of the water. "COOL! Look, Harry!" John went to pick it up, or at the very least to examine it but a hand on his arm held him back and he glared at his older sister._

_"Time to come in and get cleaned up. Mother says."_

_"Crimeny Blast, Harry!" John scowled and kicked again at the pile of sand. His small feet with the webbing between his toes were tanned brown from the sun. "Don't wanna. Not hungry!" He squinted up at her, water dripping from his bangs into his eyes, which he kept half closed. There was a sizeable puddle forming under his feet._

_"Suit yourself. Stay here if you want. I'll just tell." Harry, short for Harriet, skipped off, wet clothes and all leaving John to sigh and rub his face. But within a minute of her departure, the Elf had forgotten her threat and once again went after the crab, hoping to at least pick it up without getting pinched._

 

"Is he awake? Can he hear us?" Sherlock bent over the small figure on his bed. It had been a month since he had seen his John and now the waiting for the Elf to wake was making him anxious and restless. As Sherlock spoke, he looked up at Richard, who had placed John reverently in Sherlock's room.

"I don't know. He came back without instructions, Master. But I think he looks good. Healed. Whole." Richard kindly stroked a small piece of hair that had fallen over one of John's eyes. "No scar either. Just...himself."

"Have you examined him thoroughly? Maybe I should." Sherlock began to try to pick up John using one arm behind his back but Richard stopped the Mage with a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"He seems fine. And no memories. At least that's what I was told."

Sherlock let that sink in and sighed, letting go of John. his mission aborted. JOhn did look to be as though he was sleeping. There were no marks on his face and his legs and arms seemed just fine, unlike the broken image that Sherlock had seen at the bottom of the stairs. With that memory fresh in his mind, Sherlock shuddered and hugged his thin arms around himself. He watched as John's eyelids twitched with his eye movements.

"He's dreaming." Sherlock bent down and placed his ear beside John's mouth. "But he is not saying anything out loud."

"It must be a good dream, "Richard said "because he is smiling."

Sherlock stood up as though shot from a cannon and stared at John's lips. Sure enough they were curved upwards and his face was a mask of peaceful contentment.

"I wonder what he is dreaming about?" Sherlock asked, puzzled. Oh he just could not wait for the Elf to wake up! He hoped it would be soon! Sherlock had missed John in the past few weeks, which actually felt like years to the Mage.

"I don't know but whatever it is, he is in his happy place."

Both men stood silently, looking at the Elf, each wondering, too, what John would be like when he finally opened his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so very sorry this is so short but I didn't want you to think that John would not be healed. Long chapter to come, I promise.


	19. I Remember You Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants John to wake up....

_The tree was split at the trunk, making a perfect 'v' and the young Elf took advantage of the growth anomaly. He had made a sort of pirate costume, that being a colourful scarf tied around the upper part of his head, tying in the back, hiding his brown unruly hair and letting his ear points stick out proudly. Earlier that morning, John had cut out a felt black patch for his one eye, carefully gluing it to a band of stretchy fabric he had discovered in his mother's sewing kit. For a sword, John used his cleverness and fashioned a kind of broad pointy stick out of a piece of board found in his father's barn. All he needed now was a telescope and a parrot, although both were highly doubtful at least for today's adventures._

_John stretched out to the air, one hand holding firmly to the tree trunk while the other held the sword out at a jaunty angle. He placed one small boot clad foot on the natural v of the wood and rose up while he shouted pirate oaths into the nearby woods. In John's head he was on the mast of a pirate ship, sailing the black seas, looting and raiding the bad people and hoarding his treasure to give to poor people of the coastal cities. Of course, he thought in a very not Piratey way, there would also be enough money to buy ice cream and books for himself and something pretty for his sister, even though she was so bossy!_

_John played in the tree and on the ground around it for hours, his skin getting very sweaty in the noon heat, and his clothes, once clean and pressed, were now garments of mud and dirt. In the distance he could hear someone calling his name and he paused, frowning, the crease between his eyes wrinkling up as the child listened and tried to determine who exactly that voice belonged to. It wasn't his mother. Nor his sister. And it certainly wasn't his father._

"JOHN!!! JOHN!!! John, come to me! Come John!! I wait for you Please. John. Please come to me!"

_Oh this was indeed a dilemma. Should he listen to that strange voice and end his playing pirate or should he just stay in the tree and ignore it? John was good at ignoring people, focusing instead on going outside, or finding a bug to examine or reading one of his adventure books!_

"JOHN!!! Please!!!!  I know you hear me! I need you! Please come back! PLEASE???"

_Oh now that just wasn't right, thought the young Elf stubbornly. He had this tree, you see, and while it wouldn't go anywhere, and he could return to it tomorrow, he really wasn't ready to go back home and just sit with his mother and sister and wait for his father to come home. He had oceans to explore, and ships to pillage and parrots to find!_

_But as the Elf turned, he began to hear a nagging little voice next to his ear._

_This isn't your time. You need to come home._

_John shook his head and removed his pirate patch, frowning down at the ground like the grass had created an offense. Go home? NOW? Hmph! John sat down and crossed his legs and picked at a scab on his knee. WHY should he go home?_

_A sudden rustle in the brush caught his attention and John stopped all movement. He hoped it wasn't a wild boar because Father said they would gore you out of meanness and he just didn't want to be gored! It DID sound gloriously messy but oh boy, he was just a kid and had his whole life ahead of him. John cautiously got up, looking around for anything to use for a weapon. He thought if all else failed he could climb the tree; that would put him out of reach of the snorting wild pig!_

_The bushes parted and there stood a...man....just a man. That's all. No wild boar no wild animal just a tall, thin, dark haired man wearing a long kind of dress. John frowned as he stared up at him._

_"Hello," the Elf said still keeping a distance between himself and the stranger._

_"John." The man smiled and John cocked his head. Now THAT voice was familiar too. Where had he heard it before?_

_"What's your name?" John asked less suspiciously but still keeping space between them. His one hand gripped the trunk of his pirate ship/tree._

_"My name is Allin. Do you remember me? We had some long walks and talks while you were healing." The man's voice. Golden. Dripping with calm and mercy. John felt his insides warm up to almost boiling and he fidgeted, pulling one leg up in a kind of mock flamingo pose._

_"Dunno." John looked down at the ground. He KNEW this man, this Allin, but from where? And why was he speaking about taking long walks? John hated long walks unless of course there were bugs to find along the way._

_"Look at me, John and listen to the person who calls your name. It's time you came home. It's time you forget. And remember."_

_"You make no sense!" John scrunched up his nose and sniffed tersely. "I can't remember and forget at the same time, ya know."_

_"Yes you can. You will and you did and now..." Allin came towards the Elf and as he came closer, John gasped and put a hand up to his mouth. His eyes were dazzled by the sight of the silvery fluttery feather laden wings that protruded out of the man's back and over his shoulders. They were beautiful--gilded with heavier silver along the edges and fragile yet strong looking. Strong enough, John supposed, to fly!_

_"You...you...you're an...an angel!!!" John smiled happily and dropped his pirate sword. He wanted to touch those wings, to rub his face in them, to be surrounded by their colours and their warmth and their radiance!!!_

_"Yes. I am that." Suddenly Allin rose up in front of John and extended those magnificent wings out full length. John's eyes were huge in his young face. How beautiful they looked and more importantly, how wonderful they smelled!  His nose was full of cinnamon, bergamot, musk, and other heady spices. John felt himself falling forwards, into Allin's arms, arms so strong and loving that the Elf was crying, tears falling over his cheeks and onto the wings._

_Tears of the innocent. Troubles of the young._

_John heard the voice call to him again and this time he did not hesitate. Allin released him gently and John looked up at the Angel with cobalt eyes, round as saucers._

_"It is time to go." The Elf nodded. "Go in peace. You will remember nothing of me. Nothing of what brought you here. All you have are memories of youth and frolic, your memories. And the ones after leading up to that night you came to me."_

_"I wish I didn't have to go." John frowned and then his expression brightened. "Please come and visit!"_

_"Oh but you will be busy with a new friend, one who loves you very much." Allin paused and then with a playful push, sent the Elf running back to his home, back towards the voice of the one who was calling him. As the Angel turned away, ready to go back to his place among the stars, he remembered something for John and for Sherlock. Plucking a long silky feather out of the very top of his wing folds, Allin then held it up and watched as it shimmered silvery and sparkly. This he then placed in the palm of one gentle big hand and with a breath, sent it falling to Meridia, memories warm and comforting inside like an old friend._

 

"Why won't he wake up, Gregory??? WHY?" Sherlock paced the floor if his bedroom and hurled a dark glance at the Warrior. Gregory winced even no physical contact was made, for he knew the darkness of that glare could only mean trouble and did not want to be the recipient of the Mage's anger.

"Maybe he will if you hold his hand?" Gregory asked hopefully. Sherlock whirled around, his dressing gown, royal blue in colour and made of fine worm's silk swirled about him like a cape.

"I have HELD his hand, Gregory," Sherlock practically spit out, making the Warrior edge back a bit. The impatience and the bite in his voice  was enough to warn that a particularly horrid insult would follow shortly.

"Sherlock?"

Both Mage and Warrior froze. For a long moment neither moved, and then it was Sherlock who sprang into action, turning this way and that way trying to get past Gregory who seemed an accidental immovable force, impeding Sherlock's way to get to his Elf.

"Sherlock? You there?" John was sitting up in the bed, covers still gathered around his small sturdy body, hair all matted and sweaty from the length of time against the pillow. Sherlock bounded over to the bed and sat down gently beside his Elf, trying to maintain a calm exterior but inside was raising a celebratory flag.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked gently, grabbing John's warm hand. The Elf yawned and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"Like I have been taking a long nap." He looked around Sherlock's bedroom and paused. "Why am I in your bedroom?"

Sherlock seemed at a loss for words but it was the Warrior who came to the rescue.

"You passed out from the heat ..in the park. I brought you home and Sherlock wanted to look after you. Ya know, until you could uh wake up and be uh alright." The Elf regarded him and then nodded.

"I guess I do remember playing in a tree." He frowned.

"Oh yes, we were uh, playing with a kite and it got tangled up in the tree. You climbed it to get it out." Gregory held up his hand. "Well I must be going."

  
Sherlock threw him a grateful look and nodded. It was an eloquent lie but the Elf believed it.

"Going so soon, Gregory? Mycroft have plans for you tonight?" Sherlock's tone was teasing yet soft, so unlike his sharpness a few minutes before.

"Yeah well he's your brother ya know, but he's my friend so...good to see you back, er, well, John. Stay well now, ya hear. No kite adventures."

"I promise." John nodded and then looked at Sherlock. His eyes were peaceful, the Mage was delighted to note, and as far as physically, Richard had been right. No scars, no bruises, not even a bump or two was left from his ordeal Below.

As the door closed, Sherlock stood up and held a hand out to John. "Come on. I imagine you would like a bath."

"Whatever I was doing in the Park made me rather sticky" John said examining his clothes. "Flying a kite was I? Did I get it high?"

"Yes, I understand you were...quite high..the kite rather...was quite high...aloft...yes..." Sherlock was just staring at John, taking in the sight of his Beloved, loving the length of his hair now, a delicate cacophony of cowlicks and tousle, just turning more blond than brown. He ran his hand through it, feeling the strands between his long fingers and John practically purred in contentment as he leaned into the touch.

"That feels so good," John murmured. He hesitated for a moment before sliding off the bed to stand in front of the Mage. Weaving a bit, he recovered his balance and as Sherlock placed 2 hands around John's waist, John sighed. "I never knew that kite flying would make me so ...exhausted."

"You had a good run of it, at least that's what Gregory said." Sherlock looked away. He didn't want John to see any lie in his face and even though the story was invented, it was for John's own good ultimately. "Now then," Sherlock announced grandly. "A bath you say? " John nodded and looked even more tired if that was possible. Sherlock wondered if he hadn't been sent back too soon then reasoned that the Angels would know what they were doing. "Tell you what. I will wash with you!" Sherlock smiled and met John's warm eyes, the dark blue gaze so open and unguarded and Sherlock felt his breath hitch just a bit at how close he had come to losing John forever. "Just let me get things ready then. Sit here," Sherlock indicated a chair that was by his dressing area and John sat heavily and without grace. "Now just a moment and I will be back for you."

Sherlock gathered towels, flannels, and clean clothes for both of them and laid them on the bathroom counter. His washroom was huge, big enough for a small family to live in, teased his father, but the Mage loved to soak in the big tub as well as stand under the natural shower that was in the corner. The room had wall to wall tiles of rose and blues and natural colours, all mined from under the waterfall, all smooth and smelling of nature. When Sherlock was done with finding what he needed, he went back out to his dressing room area. There, he stopped and scowled.

"MYCROFT."

"Hello, Brother Dear." Mycroft patted John's shoulder and then went to stand in front of his youngest brother. "When did he get back?" he asked in a low tone.

"Just now. And we would like some privacy. Mycroft." Sherlock's teeth grated on saying his brother's name. Mycroft just looked non plussed and then turned to look at John, who was still sitting there although now it seemed his teeth were chattering.

"John, perhaps you should let Sherlock help you in the bath."

"That's exactly what I was doing, before you butted in. Now get lost!" Sherlock hissed between his teeth, wringing a flannel. "Oh listen! I think I hear some pastries calling your name."

"Funny, Sherlock." Although Mycroft did not look at all amused.

"And isn't Gregory looking for you?" Sherlock asked, helping John up to his feet.

"Oh is he?" A strange look, somewhere between satisfaction and anticipation crossed the elder Holmes' brother's face.

"Run along. In other words, Get. Out." Sherlock pushed the door open to his washroom and guided John inside, a smug smile lighting his handsome thin face when he heard the door to his bedroom being slammed shut.

Sherlock undressed the Elf and tried not to become aroused by touching that tanned soft skin. John was pliant and did what Sherlock asked him to do as far as lifting his arms to scrub underneath them and turning around so Sherlock could rinse the shampoo out of John's hair. As Sherlock's long fingers explored John's body, tips running over hard nipples and down between the breastbone to the stomach, down even further until his fingers touched the beginnings of a trail of fine curly hair leading down to his groin, Sherlock felt the heat begin in his body, but he  told himself to behave, though, since clearly John was not completely well yet.

"Turn around." Sherlock held on to those sturdy shoulders, fingering gently the scar at the left shoulder, then running his hands down John's back. "Rinsing you off."

"Sherlock," John said sleepily. He stared at the Mage, eyes gentle and soft and so dark blue that Sherlock found himself wanting to drown in them. The Angels had done the right thing, then, restoring John body and soul and for that Sherlock was ever grateful. He had no idea how to go about repaying them but supposed that living a good life was perhaps his future penance.

"John." Sherlock smiled as John reached up and held Sherlock around his waist. They leaned against each other and John sighed. The water drummed on both of them until Sherlock found himself turning a bit cold. "Come now. Into pyjamas and then bed."

"Dun want to..."John yawned and then blinked sleepily.

"This way." Sherlock turned the water off and steered John over to the small settee that was beside the vanity. It was cushiony but made of a water resistant fabric. Naked and pink, John sat there and patiently allowed Sherlock to dress him in a pair of blue pyjamas. If he was interested or offended in Sherlock's nudity he gave no sign of either.

"Can we go to bed now?" John asked in a small voice.

"Yes, just a moment while I get..." Sherlock struggled with a soft t shirt top and then pulled on some bottoms of the same material.

"Bed?" John looked hopefully around. Sherlock smiled at him and reached out his hand.

"Come on, my Elf."

And when John was snuggled close to Sherlock and they were both under the heavy quilts of Sherlock's big bed, Sherlock had a dream about silver feathers, light as gossamer and smelling of hope.

 


	20. A Haiku of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluffy smutty shaggy stuff

They lay there side by side on John's bed, both quiet and just soaking in the other's being. John had gone to the Park with Richard and Aiden that morning and was tired but pleasantly so. Sherlock had been working in his library, throwing books here and there, each landing with a resentful thud. They had met for a long lunch of pasta, vegetables, and cream sauce followed by a caramel cake that Sherlock loved. His mother knew his weakness and Mage or not, Sherlock could always be persuaded to eat several pieces.

John frowned a bit and nudged Sherlock's elbow. There was no reaction but the Elf knew Sherlock well enough by now to realize that Sherlock could still hear him even if he was lost somewhere in his own head.

"Why the dragonfly mobile? It's not like I am a little kid." John reached a hand up and waved it in the general direction of the hanging colourful suspension.

"In Japan, they write Haikus about dragonflies. And they are associated with summer and spring. Your hair is the colour of sun in the summer, sometimes more brown than blonde and sometimes more blonde than brown."

"I suppose it depends on how long I'm in the su-"

"-Of course, in some cultures, they are associated with evil and injury, oftentimes being called sinister." This last word rolled off his tongue easily but he accentuated the first syllable. "I prefer to believe that the folks in Japan are smarter than the others. In particular, the Japanese revere dragonflies and believe that they represent courage, love, strength and happiness. All of these you possess." Sherlock turned his head to meet the wide eyes of the Elf.

"That....that...that's so...so beautiful." John smiled, his grin like a beam of sunbeam.

Sherlock's lips twitched not etching into an answering smile but instead just amused. "Beautiful? I wouldn't say that. It's what they believe. Their culture is so much more...advanced than most."

"Have you been there? To Japan?" John asked eagerly, now propping up on one elbow to stare down at Sherlock's relaxed face. The Mage's eyes were closed and he looked asleep.

"No." Sherlock paused then sighed. "Mycroft has. Ask him about his travels."

"Well I might have to!" John was excited now, almost bouncy. A look of mild annoyance passed over Sherlock's face. Of course Mycroft had captured the Elf's attention. Oh this would not do.

"Good luck with finding Mycroft NOT busy with his affairs of state." Sherlock turned, rather flouncing, and stroked his Elf's face. He stared into those cobalt blue eyes and saw the innocence and trust in them. He blinked and hoped that he did not wear what he felt on his own face. His was a mask but inside his emotions were boiling. He could feel John's warm breath, scented of caramel cake and peppermint lollies.  He allowed his eyes to sweep John's body, the Elf clad in a pair of loose pants tied at the waist and a baggy brown shirt with a three button placate. His hair was soft looking, curls and waves around his ears and collar.

"You." Sherlock said.

"What?" John cocked his head to the side and blinked.

"You. I want. YOU." Sherlock dipped his head closer to John and let his lips briefly sweep across John's lips, trying to take in as much information as he could, from the slightly chapped texture of John's bottom lip to the sweet lingering smell of dessert. He heard the sharp intake of breath from the Elf and John's body stiffen, now at attention for what the Mage was going to do next.

 "Me...but I don't...." John's reply was stilled by Sherlock now kissing those lips hard, teeth nibbling against the bottom lip, tongue darting hard in his own rhythm. John moaned and brought his hands up to either side of Sherlock's face, cradling the Mage as they kissed, and Sherlock eased himself half on to John so he was laying with his chest on John's torso, legs splaying out behind him, one foot dangling over the edge of John's bed. Their mouths moved against one another like they knew what they were doing forever. TOngues found teeth and the roofs of their mouths, and sometimes both tongues swept along each other, making each of them moan slightly deep in their throats.

It was all too much for John. He surrendered to Sherlock's kiss and began to wrap his arms around Sherlock's upper body, pulling Sherlock down on him so their bodies met and meshed together. He felt the searing warmth of the Mage, his ivory skin like fire, it was that hot. He heard Sherlock's whispers beside his ear, hot breath making his tip dance, and then soft lips encased one of his ear points. John shuddered and bucked like he was shot. Oh it felt so good to have that tongue, so wet and knowing, lick a strip up his ear and then mouth his point. John heard himself call Sherlock's name, over and over, in a frenzied hoarse tone. HIs hips jerked up and he felt his own hardness bump into Sherlock's thigh. If this was what it felt like to be so completely taken over by the person you loved, then John wanted full on everything!

Sherlock suckled the tip of John's ear, tongue tracing the inner folds up to the very top where it was almost sharp. John was squirming, bucking, humping. Sherlock's own hardness ground into John's one leg and that was when the Mage decided that they both were wearing too many clothes to suit him. Impatiently, Sherlock tugged at the bottom hem of John's shirt. The Elf came back to earth and focused on pulling it over his head. He then shyly looked at Sherlock and with a not so subtle nod of his own head, indicated that Sherlock take his own shirt off.

"Take it off me, Elf." Sherlock laid back against John's pillows, one arm behind his head. Stretched out like this, the Mage knew his own power but never had it been so potent as now. The Elf swallowed hard and reached for the buttons on Sherlock's pale blue shirt, his hands trembling against the fabric. Somehow, even though his fingers were clumsy, he managed to unbutton all of the front buttons on Sherlock's shirt while the Mage watched him, licking his lips and trying to control his breathy pants. John slid the shirt off of Sherlock's alabaster well defined shoulders and then paused looking at the Mage for what to do next. Sherlock pulled John down so the Elf was straddling him and almost face to face. An eager wet mouth tried to kiss Sherlock again but Sherlock turned his head and instead went down on an ear tip causing John to instantly buck against Sherlock's growing bulge with one of his own.

"Sherlock...this...when you....do that.." John panted, barely coherent, feeling the licks of desire cloud his thinking. His ears sent a rocket shot straight to his cock and he was so hard now, so throbbing and so needing it. He pushed against Sherlock and groaned as the other man's bulge pressed right back.

"Your ears are so sensitive," Sherlock gasped and ran a hand down John's smooth skin, delighting in the softness under his hands.

"Should we take off our...pants?" John hissed as Sherlock nipped at the ear point, drawing just the right amount of pleasure versus pain.

"Oh God yes." Sherlock pulled John's drawstring after working his hand between their bodies, then deftly, with both strong big hands between the waistband and John's skin, hooked both pants and small pants together and pulled them down past the Elf's sturdy hips and strong legs until they were flying off his feet and somewhere on the floor. John hid his face in the crook of Sherlock's arm, skin hot as he blushed. Sherlock continued to rub John's back, now fingers trailing to John's buttocks, drawing circles on them with his fingertips while he mouthed an ear tip and licked salaciously along John's hairline.

John's hands were not idle. Indeed, the Elf had slipped one of his hands between them now and was slowly unbuttoning the waist of Sherlock's black trousers, occasionally dipping a finger low to stroke over the bulge still confined. Sherlock gasped and wiggled, trying to unfasten them himself but John batted his hand away and then just because the nipple was within striking distance, John bit gently on one of the exposed buds of flesh drawing an elicited moan out of the Mage. Sherlock thrust his chest up to that seeking mouth and John worked his oral magic on first one nipple, then the other, alternating strokes of his fingers inside the now wet crotch of Sherlock's pants. Pre come coated the tip of his hard cock and John's fingertips stroked the soft flesh making Sherlock feel like his whole body was on fire.

Sherlock threw his head back, exposing that alabaster perfect neck. John stopped working on the nipple and shifted his weight to lay so his head was closer to Sherlock's head, and his teeth grazed the skin over first the Adam's apple then the place where the carotid artery beat. John left little reddish purple marks, claiming the unmarked skin as his with possessive nips and sucks.

"Elf," Sherlock hissed. The Mage flipped John onto John's back and immediately got between the Elf's naked thighs. With a small kiss on John's open lips, Sherlock leaned up and reached down to remove his own pants, now naked as the Elf was, and then settled on top of John, cock pushing against cock. John looked at Sherlock with a sex drugged gaze, eyelids half open, pupils blown. Neither of them would last long if they didn't get down to business so Sherlock pushed a finger into John's willing pliant mouth. The Elf sucked and nibbled the tip of the long finger, all the time looking at the Mage. Sherlock concentrated on the lips drawing in his finger, on the wetness of John's mouth, on the sucking sensation that travelled like a bolt to his cock. Sherlock added another finger and although the Elf lowered his eyes to look at the fingers going back and forth, in and out of his mouth, he was accepting and his licks were languid and unhurried, punctuated by some random sucks. It was all too much.

Abruptly Sherlock pulled his fingers from John's mouth and slid them down John's chest, briefly outlining the gold rings that looped his nipples, admiring their symmetry and colour, loving how when he ran a finger around the outer region of john's one nipple, the Elf cried out and clung to Sherlock, hands holding tightly to Sherlock's bare back. On to the other nipple, same thing, tracing the rings and the soft almost invisible hair around the pink buds, making John gasp and moan. Then down down down, past the thin trail of light brown coarser hair, down between their bodies to rub against the hardness of John's cock. John stiffened and thrust once, his cock wanting, needing the contact of that hand, but Sherlock instead slid it even further and played with the seam of John's ball sac, a light gentle touch stroking the natural line. John spread his legs and he clenched his hands in the sheets, making balled fists of the blankets. He was saying Sherlock's name over and over, never having felt the sensations his very body was responding to as Sherlock kept rubbing down and then a finger tip past the tight ring of muscle and into damp heat.

John moaned. He arched his back and embraced Sherlock, aware that Sherlock's cock was so hard and poking into his stomach. It felt like a rigid piece of steel but more importantly that finger was doing wonderful things to his insides and as Sherlock stroked and deftly stimulated the Elf from inside of his own skin and flesh, John lost himself in a haze of urgent throbbing hardness.

Sherlock's finger was followed by a second finger, still wet with John's saliva, and as he inserted it, John drew a shaky breath and turned his head, eyes clenched shut. If it hurt, it was a good hurt so Sherlock continued to stroke, opening John up for what was going to follow next, the ultimate act of possession, his possession of the Elf, HIS Elf. One fingertip found John's prostate and John hissed and moaned, then spread his trembling legs, thrusting up to get that good burn from those seeking moving fingers. Slowly, Sherlock removed them, moving up and kissing John's open mouth. Their tongues dueled as Sherlock brought John's hands up over his head and nuzzled the Elf's chest. John was asking for something, saying please Sherlock please and Sherlock felt the waves of something good and something so real wash over him. This was where he belonged, loving and giving love to his partner, and if he had ever dreamed it would be this good well then he was sure it was the right thing.

Slowly now Sherlock let go of John's hands and the Elf opened his eyes and frantically pressed his hips up to Sherlock, wanting something but not asking for it in words. Sherlock lined up his cock, now throbbing almost painfully, to John's entrance and pushed inside of him, the heat and tightness making both of them gasp, Sherlock in pleasure and John in a kind of aborted painful throb. With the head of his thick member inside of John, Sherlock rocked first back and then up and then back and then up, drawing the tip out of the ring and then back into the tightness that radiated from within John's insides. Each time, Sherlock went a little bit deeper until the head of his cock was pressed right up against John's prostate and with every push and every motion, John was feeling the raw pleasure course through his body, where once was pain now was a giddy kind of pulsing fire.

"Sherlock..." John moaned and clung to his lover, riding with him, feeling every stroke and syncopating his thrusts in time with the Mage. More than pain it was pleasure. More than heat it was fire. John was quickly losing himself as Sherlock went deeper and deeper inside of him. With a shout, Sherlock was coming. His cock pulsed and thrust and John felt the warmth of the liquid seep into his tortured hole. That was enough to push him over the edge and he came in a long drawn out orgasm that had him holding on to the mage, crying out his name, shivering and covering Sherlock's stomach with thick jets of jism.

Panting, Sherlock laid down, full weight on top of John. They were both breathless and somewhere far away from the bedroom at the top of the Palace. Sighing then, Sherlock slid off of the Elf and lay beside him, still holding him, their legs tangled in an inseparable arc of passion. Gently Sherlock mouthed an ear tip, making John shiver.

"Dance, O dragonflies,  
In your world  
of the setting sun." Sherlock whispered and felt John smile against him. A sort of Haiku. And John understood.


	21. Visonary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the future is revealed to Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kind comments! And your interest!

"Sherlock. Could you just pretend to be listening to me for once?"

"Why Mycroft? What would you have to say that might be important to me?" Sherlock looked up from taking apart a biscuit with a small knife and scowled. He certainly hadn't asked for his brother's company this bright afternoon and the idea that Mycroft was here at all was a bit...troubling. "Tell me now so I don't have to wait. You know how much I hate waiting." The scowl deepened as he managed to get the hard cookie shell apart from the cream middle.

Mycroft cleared his throat and stood up from where he had been sitting at the table. He stared at the top of his brother's curly hair and resisted the urge to touch the soft dark coloured waves. Perhaps if he tugged at a curly strand, Sherlock would be more attentive.

"Mummy wants to know if you are to marry the Elf."

Silence. Sherlock fiddled with the cookie cream with the point of the knife, spearing it and then flicking it off on to the plate he had next to him.

"Sherlock? DId you hear me? I said--"

"I _know_ what you said, Brother Dear." Flick flick scrape and curse. The cookie had crumbled under Sherlock's torturous examination. "Damn!"

"Is that so important to you? Investigating a biscuit??" Mycroft swept the plate aside angrily. Sherlock looked up with a less than charitable look in his multi palette coloured eyes.

"If you're asking me FOR Mummy, then why hasn't she asked me herself? Surely she cannot be so BUSY that she cannot come to me and spit out the inquiry. No, I think it's YOU who wants to know what exactly I am going to do with John. Oh and bee tee dubau HE has a name, Mycroft. DON'T call him "the Elf." " Sherlock grabbed his plate back and stood with a flourish. "Such mediocrity. Dull." Sherlock emptied the contents of the plate into the trash receptacle and turned with a flourish to leave the room, dressing gown whirling around his thin frame like a ballerina's toile.

"He---JOHN---seems healed. Does he remember anything?" Mycroft called out.

"He's fine. He's of sound mind and body." Sherlock had tensed though remembering what had happened Below and who was responsible. His hand faltered on the door knob and he stood statue like as he thought. "I don't believe that he will ever recall what happened to him at the hands of that monster."

"There's a Red Moon tomorrow night, Sherlock." Mycroft's left eyebrow arched towards his hairline. "Don't do anything foolish."

Sherlock's hands and body did not betray what murderous thoughts he was considering.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mycroft. Now I must be going. Promised to show John around the gardens outside. Good day."

Mycroft watched his brother retreat and the room seemed somehow less interesting. With a sigh he picked up the empty plate and stared at it. Although he wasn't attuned to the Magic that his brother had within him, Mycroft had some heightened senses of his own. Some would call it intuition and some would call it Second Sight. Whatever it was he felt the shiver as it ran down his spine and hoped his brother would not do anything he would live to regret. James had to be punished for what he'd done but Sherlock shouldn't appoint himself judge, jury and gallows man. There were certain 'channels' to go through, some delicate matters that would put this case to rest without an apocalyptic battle. And if the Visions would strike Sherlock when he was confronting his brother then Sherlock would certainly be in huge danger. Mycroft squared his shoulders and hoped that whatever the Gods had in mind for his family, for his brother and for his brother's Elf that it would be merciful and good.

Sherlock dressed in a simple dove grey coloured suit that hugged his frame and paired it with a purple shirt. He knew John liked the shirt; the last time that Sherlock had worn this particular combination, the Elf could not seem to tear his gaze away for more than 5 seconds, and yes, Sherlock had timed him. Impeccable as usual, Sherlock then strode down the hallway to go to John's room 3 doors away. He had moved the Elf close to him after the nasty business Below, if only to keep an eye on John and to be able to soothe him if he had any nasty dreams. So far though so good as there had been no disturbances in the night and Sherlock knew he had Allin and the rest to thank for John's peace of mind and wholeness again.

Their day had passed pleasantly enough. A visit to the Royal Gardens had made John mellow and happy as if seeing all of the different blooms and smelling each of them erased all the worries in the world. Sherlock had loved watching John be of particular care whenever he would bend to smell the petals and the leaves of the plants. And it seemed as if the very blooms he was smelling leaned up to reach towards him. It was highly unusual. 

After their garden adventure, Sherlock and John had spent a lazy hour lounging on the bench in the shade and Sherlock had read one of his adventure books to the Elf, who listened with unabashed rapture. It was good that John loved books and reading. No, more than good. It was amazing. But soon, their stomachs growled in unison and Sherlock made plans to take John to dinner.

Sherlock rapped on the door and waited, hearing movement inside the room, no doubt the Elf jumping off the bed and making his way to the door. There was a second's pause as John opened the door and then a huge grin when John saw it was Sherlock.

"Well thank the Gods it's you and not Aiden and Richard!" With that, John hugged Sherlock fiercely, burying his face against the silk of the suit and inhaling gustily. "Oh you smell good!"

Sherlock felt all the tension in his body leave and he hugged the Elf back, loving the feel of that sturdy small body pressed against him. "Do you want to have dinner here or in the dining room?"

John paused as he thought about this. Part of him wanted Sherlock to himself, just the 2 of them, eating and laughing and talking in his room but then he thought how rude that might seem to Sherlock's parents, whom he really did not know and thought maybe he needed to at least try to talk to them.

"Dining room," John answered.

'Mycroft will probably be there." Sherlock sniffed with disdain.

"DOn't be like that!" John grabbed Sherlock's hand and led him down the hall to the stairs. John did not feel the Mage shudder slightly as the thought of the stairs and where they led if one were to go past the main floors of the Palace. "Mycroft and you are brothers! You should get on better! I wish I had had a brother instead of a..." Suddenly John stopped and looked plaintively at Sherlock.

"What? What is it, John?" Sherlock asked.

"My sister. She doesn't know where I am." John was looking down at his shoes as he spoke. His hands were balling into small fists at his side.

"I will send a courier if you'd like. You can write her a letter!" Sherlock bent slightly and tried to lock eyes with John. He felt the Elf's sadness rolling off in waves and he didn't like it.

"Yes, yes, that's what I will do." John met Sherlock's worried gaze and Sherlock inwardly sighed with relief that John looked and sounded less troubled. He would ask for fine linen paper and refill John's ink barrel with couloured ink, perhaps blue in colour, so that John could correspond with, what was her name, Harry! Yes, it was Harry! Totally not important, Sherlock thought, thus he had had to really think about it in order to remember it.

  
"Thank you, Sherlock," John said suddenly, voice still having sad inflections in it but nonetheless reassured.

"You are most welcome, my Elf." Sherlock took one of John's hands again and they continued to descend (down down down) to the dining area ( cold and damp and rotted) where Sherlock's parents ate (quite an adventure eh Johnny?) Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John stopped and stared at the Mage. His skin, normally pale had turned a pallid white making his dark hair even darker looking in colour. A faint sweat was starting to bead on his forehead and his legs were visibly shaking. They were standing just inside the doorway to the hall leading to the dining room so John scurried through the door and spotted Sherlock's mother, the Queen, sitting at the table, reading something. "Please! Can you help!? Something is horribly wrong with Sherlock!"

At that, Queen Wanda stood and rushed past John to where her son was now collapsing, eyes wide and unseeing, seemingly staring straight ahead.

"Ete lunaza rhizes rouhier."

"Sherlock, darling! Here just lay down on the floor. John! Go find Mycroft and Dr. Moffat!" She turned her attention back to her son who was now lying on the stone hallway, his limbs stiff his head lolling back. There was blood on his bottom lip where his incisor had cut the tender tissue when he had bit down but other than that, he wasn't hurt.

"Ete lunaza rhizes rouhier...Ete lunaza rhizes rouhier. Ete lunaza rhizes rouhier.."

"Sherlock! Sherlock can you hear me??"

"Goodness how long has he been like this?" Dr. Moffat knelt beside the Mage and placed a gentle hand under Sherlock's head. He wiped gently at the blood, trying to ignore what Sherlock was saying over and over again.

"Just a few minutes." Queen Wanda tried to hold Sherlock's hand but he pushed her away and she suddenly realized that her son's eyes were black--deep murderous looking pools of black. She put a hand to her chest and took a step backwards.

"It's alright, Your Highness. He needs to just suffer it out." Dr. Moffat rocked back on his heels and was aware that John was also kneeling next to him. John had taken Sherlock's stiff hand and was caressing the long fingers which were gradually relaxing. Dr. Moffat was also acutely aware that the Queen was watching the Elf, whether with approval or something else, he didn't know. He instead kept his focus on his patient, who was now quiet and calm, no longer shaking or stiffening but turning into a boneless mess. "Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you there?" The doctor gently tapped Sherlock's cheek with the palm of his hand.

"Let me." John moved over Sherlock and gently smoothed the hair away from the Mage's forehead. His fingers, small but strong, trailed down one cheek and then over the other. Sherlock stirred, now quiet, not repeating the dreadful phrase again and again.  
"Sherlock, wake up." John bent and kissed Sherlock's open lips and quite at once, Sherlock opened his eyes, eyelids fluttering and uncertain, and let out a gusty sigh, as if he had just awakened from a deep sleep.

"What...am I...Dr. Moffat?" Sherlock frowned and then it was a if a light was back on. The Mage tried to sit up but John pushed him back and gently kissed Sherlock's one hand.

"Let him check you out," John whispered.

"I'm fine."

"Oh you think so, do you? Having one of those awful Visions. My poor Darling Boy! Your Grandmama used to have them. They scared me so much when I was growing up." The Queen was flapping her hands, wanting to hug her son but waiting to do it until the doctor was done.

"Mummy, don't you have some place to go?" Sherlock muttered. he waved off Dr. Moffat and sat up ignoring John's pleas to lay back down.

"Sherlock!" She took a step back at his absolute poisonous tone.

"Sherlock Holmes! Prince or no prince, you respect your mother. She IS your MOTHER. Treat her with respect!" John's voice had a hard edge of authority in it and Sherlock regarded the Elf with respect.

"Very well." He sighed and allowed the doctor to check his pulses and his temperature, knowing that they were perfectly normal now. To his mother he offered his hand. "I do apologise."

"You are forgiven of course," sighed the Queen, used to Sherlock's sometimes rude behavior towards everyone. Everyone, it seemed, but the Elf, who was still holding on to one of Sherlock's hands.

"Is he ok, Dr.?" John asked, still fussing about with Sherlock's hair. Sherlock managed a quick grin just for John then turned his stormy eyes to the physician.

"Get me my vapours so I may get up off the floor. It's cold and it is wrinkling my suit." Sherlock sniffed haughtily and tried to pull down his jacket. In truth, the stone floor WAS cold and he felt a slight shiver up his back, though whether it was from the floor or what he had seen when he had been...elsewhere, he did not know.

"Richard is bringing them," John said quietly. He had noticed that Sherlock still seemed a bit.well, for lack of a better word, off. His eyes, though now focused were stormy colours of greys and greens not like the peaceful blues and golds and silvery bands around the irises as they usually were. HIs body was still a bit rigid. And his lips were drawn in a straight line as if he was determined.

"No, here they are. I brought them."

"Mycroft.."Sherlock groaned.

"OH good, and just in time. Sherlock is getting cold." Queen Wanda gripped Mycroft's arm tightly and whispered as though she did not think her other son would hear her. "He had Visions."

"Yes, Mummy, I had VISIONS. Now give me my Vapours and allow me to sniff until I find the strength to sit up, get up, and eat my dinner!"

"What's going on?"

"Oh for the love of Callides." Sherlock artfully rolled his eyes when he heard his father, the King, enter the hallway where everyone, it seemed was gathered around. "This is NOT a circus!"

"Sherlock," John began earnestly, "they're worried about you that's all."

"It's all bollocks." Sherlock took a whiff of the cup that his brother handed him and immediately felt the clouds leave his normally keen mind. "Just a few more and I should be fine."

"You haven't had these..in a long while, Sherlock." King Timothy crossed his arms and appraised his youngest son. He still did not look well.

"Just as well, Father." Sherlock took another deep sniff. John was watching him intently. He could feel rather than see his stare. "John, why don't you go get my warmer jumper."

"What...you don't have a ...jumper,...do you?" John looked around at the faces that were all, it seems now looking at him. He felt the tiniest bit of unease and swallowed hard.

"Yes I do. It's in my third drawer down under my wardrobe. If you have any trouble finding it, call for Richard to assist you. Now go before I freeze to death on these stones."

"Very...well..:" John rose reluctantly, and it seemed that the rest of Sherlock's family were all now focusing on the slender man on the floor. "It will be just a minute."

"Do hurry up. But take your time." Sherlock sniffed again, the herbs having a positive effect on him. He felt totally ready to pick apart what he had seen before him when he was 'under'.

John scurried off, his body conveying that he was slightly hurt but Sherlock registered it, then just as quickly forgot about it. He had sent John away so that the Elf could not hear his family speak of the history of these Visions he sometimes got, because he did not want John to worry or see him as anything less than what he was to John.

"Oh Sherlock, that was a bit not good." His mother crouched beside him and ran a hand over his forehead.

"I don't have a fever. Ask that quack of a doctor." Sherlock shook his head from side to side and then began to stand, not listening to Mycroft or his father who were as usual just being boringly concerned. "No, really, I can stand up. Please. Let me do this."

"Are you sure that's wise?" King Timothy hovered near Sherlock's one elbow, ready to grab if the Mage fell over.

"Judging by his sarcasm I would say he is his usual self." Dr. Moffat packed up his medical bag and regarded Sherlock with a physician's eye. "You need to rest. Why don't you have dinner in your room? I'll stop up later."

"Oh good, another visit." Sherlock was tucking his shirt into his pants and sighing exaggeratedly. The truth was somewhere between a hovering headache and some residual nausea but the Mage was too stubborn to let anyone see that his health was affected. "Don't worry! I'll be looking forward to that."

"Sherlock.."Mycroft's voice was soft but rich with an unsaid warning to be nice.

"Alright then!" Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Dinner with John in my room. Lovely idea. Good night, all. Sorry I couldn't be the enlightening, entertaining dinner guest tonight! Worth a try though."

The King and Queen both shook their heads and with a squeeze on Sherlock's elbow, seemed resigned to their fates to be dismissed by their youngest son. Mycroft remained, however, as did the doctor. They both waited until the royal couple were out of sight and earshot to ask Sherlock what he had seen.

"Not sure. Still analyzing it." Sherlock brushed off his suit jacket and pants then faced both his brother and his doctor. "Going to go upstairs and tell John that I had forgotten I got rid of that old jumper and to stop looking. Then I am going to have dinner with my Elf. After that, perhaps some merriment between the sheets will ensue--you know about that, don't you Mycroft, or should I ask Gregory---then a good night's sleep. With that, I bid you both good evening."

"You can't just shrug it off like nothing happened, Sherlock!"

"I haven't, Brother Dear." Sherlock cocked his head to the side and then blinked rapidly as though he was seeing something in the distance. "Good evening. Dr. Moffat, I will see you later."

Sherlock took the stairs 2 at a time even though he was still dizzy and his stomach was protesting the effort. Tonight he would rest and perhaps seek pleasure with John. Tomorrow though is when the war would start. He was prepared and as the Visions had shown him, he now knew what he had to do to make it right again.

 

 

 


	22. Somewhere Between Right And Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry I have not updated this in quite some time. I have been working on another fic but something tells me I need to finish this one too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I said life is a tale, it begins and it ends  
> And forever's a word that we can't understand  
> Well, I know that my life's better when we're together  
> So why can't our story just go on forever?"  
> Lord Huron

"John, will you pass me the carrots?" Sherlock tucked the napkin on his lap and sat straight up in the wooden chair next to the table in John's room. He was none the worse for wear except for the lingering headache and wonky stomach, but those were nothing a good meal would not help. John had chosen the menu, submitting it to Richard to take to the cook for approval. Judging from John's squirmy and somewhat apprehensive appearance, Sherlock knew the Elf was just waiting for Sherlock to tuck in.

"Carrots." John handed Sherlock the bowl of candied carrot coins, one of Sherlock's favourites, although John could not know that. After taking a modest spoonful of the steaming vegetables, Sherlock reached over to the platter of whitefish and cut off a piece with his knife. This he passed over to John and placed it on John's plate, only to reach back and cut himself a piece to eat. Then there were the potatoes, fried to a golden crisp. Sherlock took a spoonful and served John then added a spoonful for himself. The Elf happily regarded his plate but waited until Sherlock gave a minute nod before starting to eat.

"This is nice." John swallowed the bite he was chewing and still sporting the rather dopey grin on his face met Sherlock's eyes. Immediately, he blushed and ducked his head down to continue eating. "I like this but I am sorry you were sick."

"Visions. It's nothing." Sherlock shrugged but his mind was already far away, formulating the plan he was going to attempt. Oh, he did not need Mycroft's help, or Lestrade's counsel. He knew what his parents would say. 'He's your brother and he's just got some problems. We'll deal with him, Sherlock' came the chiding voice of his mother, the Queen. But this time, James had gone too far and Sherlock had SEEN what to do. A touch on his arm brought Sherlock back to the present. John was leaning forward, small hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock stared dumbly at it, then realized where he was and what he was doing. "John, are you enjoying the fish? They are actually very difficult to catch because they live in the deepest currents of the river."

"Very tasty. I like the meat. Solid and very...white..." John giggled. He kept his hand on Sherlock's arm, a rather possessive gesture but Sherlock decided that it was nice eating this way. The Mage leaned over and nibbled the tip of the Elf's ear, causing a gasp. John dropped his fork and whirled to stare at Sherlock. "My...did you...my ear..." John rubbed his ear with indignation. "We are eating, Sherlock!!!" John remembered what had happened before and although he was up for it again, he wanted to eat!

"And you'd kindly have me remember that, would you, my Elf?" Sherlock smiled and kissed John's hand then turned back to his dinner, ignoring John's rather dopey look. Sherlock hoped that the precursor to their lovemaking had been initiated.

 "John, do eat before it gets cold."

With a slight harrumph, John focused on his dinner again and decided that in the very near future, Sherlock would be the one begging for more, whether it be a touch or a lick or a stroke.

"You're thinking loudly, John. And how would you make me beg? Pray tell me." Sherlock was looking at John again and the Elf felt the intense scrutiny even though his eyes were downcast and focused on his plate.

"I would...start with kissing you...your neck...and your...your nipples..." John whispered, and he heard Sherlock's breath hitch so he went on. "I would...kiss your nipples and stroke, stroke your thighs, avoiding your....member...until you wanted me to...take my lips and kiss you..your....your manhood...with my tongue..."

With a groan, Sherlock was out of his seat and at John's side, pulling the Elf up into his embrace. Strong long slender arms enfolded John and Sherlock thought if he was to keep him safe like this he would do it forever. John was instantly nibbling at Sherlock's vee of flesh that showed between the collar of his shirt. The Elf's teeth were like small cat teeth and as John pulled at the tender flesh there, Sherlock leaned his head back and felt the delicious heat start in his groin.

They froze when someone knocked on the door.

"Flarange!" Sherlock harrumphed and gently pushed John away. "Sit down and we will continue eating," he hissed to John, who looked as disappointed as Sherlock felt. "Who is there?" Sherlock called, gathering his napkin and trying to hide his bulge between his legs.

"Dr. Moffat. May I enter?"

"Oh the quack is here." Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored the tut tut-ing of John. "Enter if you must."

Dr. Moffat opened the door and quickly strode over to where Sherlock was seated. The doctor placed his leather case on the bed, opened it, and pulled out what looked like a thermometer, a stethoscope, and a light fixture at the end of a small steel shaft. John tapped at the latter.

"What's that for?"

"Looking into his eyes." The doctor kneeled in front of Sherlock who wore an expression halfway between grimace and pain. The Mage did not look at Dr. Moffat but instead kept his eyes focused straight ahead.

"But...he's had a spell...that will hurt him..." John protectively put his arms around Sherlock from behind but Sherlock simply patted at John's arms and then pulled ahead to get the Elf to release his grip.

"I feel fine, John. Thank you."

"Pointless trying to argue with you then." John took a step back, feelings hurt. Sherlock wasn't in any condition, in his opinion, for anyone to be shining any kind of lights in those beautiful eyes and yet, the Mage was content to have it done anyways. Oh Sherlock was so stubborn!

"Yes, John. Pointless." Sherlock allowed the doctor to take his temperature and his pulse, all the while looking bored with the whole proceedings while John fidgeted behind the chair. When it came time to shine the light into Sherlock's eyes, John swallowed nervously and balled his fists into the pockets of his loose trousers. Dr. Moffat brought the light up and suddenly, Sherlock was on the floor, jerking and twitching in the throes of another spasm. His mouth was slack but his eyes were moving around wildly.

Instantly, John was kneeling by his side and holding on to his head so he wouldn't hurt himself by banging it against the stone floor. Dr. Moffat was also kneeling but John pushed him away and then began to tenderly run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, making sure to concentrate on putting some pressure against Sherlock's temples. John muttered small words of Elven endearments, nothing that his Mage would understand but something to soothe John's own frayed nerves. Slowly, Sherlock relaxed and his torso suddenly went limp. John cradled Sherlock's head against his own knees and indicated the light instrument with a jerk of his head.

"I told you, didn't I? Hmm? That you'd give him a problem? But no. Nobody listens to me. Even though I bloody well know what I am talking about!" The Elf's tone was rising as well as a red flush taking over his normally tanned complexion. Dr. Moffat simply shrugged and put away his instruments.

"You couldn't have known that was going to happen."

"I did and I could. His eyes...his eyes aren't...his eyes aren't himself." John stroked Sherlock's cheek and felt the Mage's breathing return to normal. John wasn't sure what these Visions meant, but he was certain of one thing and that was he, John, had to protect his Mage through anything. Just like Sherlock protected him.

_have a  nice sleep John_

Where was that coming from? John shook his head and focused on Sherlock who was stirring. The doctor peered down from his perch on the chair.

"This is the second time tonight. He'll need to be sedated."

"Nobody needs to sedate him. Sherlock needs to sleep is all." John planted a kiss on Sherlock's open lips and that in turn made the Mage open up those beautiful eyes that John so loved. "Hello Love. you took a tumble."

"A TUMBLE?: Sherlock frowned and made as if to get up but John held him tightly, stroking  his hair and calming him.

"Fell right off the chair. I told the doctor not to shine that infernal light in your eyes!"

"Oh, John, I'm fine," Sherlock said, but obviously, Sherlock was NOT fine. His eyes were cloudy. His face was ashen white, even more so than was typical from his pale complexion. His whole body trembled as if he was cold. John hugged him close, trying to reassure, trying to warm him. "Just...help me up..."

"I will go get Richard and Aiden," Dr. Moffat said, hurrying out the door. A glimmer of annoyance passed by on Sherlock's face.

"What do I need them for? John, you are perfectly capable of helping me. Now assist me in standing. I am not laying on the floor another moment."

John, realizing that pride was motivating Sherlock now, gathered his Mage into some semblance of un-skewed limbs and pulled up under Sherlock's arms. Because of John's lack of height, and Sherlock's abundance of such, it was almost a comical sight, but Sherlock was sitting on the bed trying to gather his wits about him when Richard and Aiden rushed in followed by Mycroft.

At the sight of his older brother, Sherlock grimaced and turned his head away, resting it against John's chest, inhaling the scent of his Elf, grounding him and making him focus. "Mycroft. Who sent for you anyways?" Sherlock murmured.

"Nobody SENT for me, Sherlock, but I observed Richard and Aiden running through the hallways like their very lives were at stake so I followed them and here I am." The older man peered at Sherlock, eliciting a spiteful noise from Sherlock. "And there you are. My my, your eyes aren't what they used to be. Having difficulty focusing? Hearing anything you shouldn't be hearing?

John frowned at that and cocked his head inquisitively. "Hearing...what..voices exactly? Sherlock, are you hearing voices?"

"No, and Mycroft needs to leave." Sherlock impatiently jerked his hand away from where Richard was trying to hold it. "Everyone just go away. I am fine. I really am!"

"Dr. Moffat, shall we help Sherlock back to his room? I suggest maybe a sleeping draught is in order." Mycroft turned his back on his little brother and continued to order everyone around. "Aiden, get this dinner mess picked up. Richard, go get Sherlock's bed ready. If you have to, just sweep the books off the bed. Use a broom."

"No!" John stood up and every eye was on him. "I mean...I understand...Sherlock has to go to rest but the books...the books will get angry if you just knock them on the floor. Let me go, please. I'll gather them up and put them somewhere."

"Ah, John, you're so good." Sherlock's words were slurred and his head began to dip. To John's surprise, Dr. Moffat was cleaning off a needle, much like a small one to administer a dose of medication to a sick person.

"What did you give him?" John asked, trying to see, but Richard was pointing him to the door and practically pushing the Elf out into the hallway.

"No concern of yours," and it sounded like a growl. John bit his lip to keep from talking back. "Just go get the books out of there. I'll help with Sherlock."

Reluctantly, John made his way down the hallway and up the stairs until he reached Sherlock's room. It was the usual disaster area in that there were books all over the bed and desk, some open some closed. A notebook and ink and a quill lay haphazardly across his window seat. John capped the ink and placed the quill inside the notebook, then deposited both on the desk. He carefully placed the books, cover side up, back onto the shelves and the ones that did not fit, he stacked up on the desk. With a quick adjustment of the bed covers, Sherlock's room looked to be just fine.

The Elf was just about to turn and go out the door to call for Richard to bring Sherlock up when he heard a voice behind him. It was familiar and yet not. Soft but carrying menace. Sweet but vicious.

"Did you miss me, Johnny Boy?"

James closed the door and locked it. John swallowed hard, feeling bile rise for no reason. A current of fright jolted him and he stepped back one step, then another, and another. James neither advanced or showed any concern that John was retreating. He was not even focusing on John as a matter of fact. His head was cocked, as though listening for footsteps on the stairs.

"Sherlock's gonna be here any minute. You'd better just open that door and let me go."

"Now why would I do that? I would have no fun that way." James turned his head back towards John and to the Elf's horror, he saw a long knife in James' hands. He was turning it over and over being careful not to nick himself. "It's good that you remember me, Johnny. I have so missed you and our...previous fun together..." With a fleeting smile that was more slimy than cordial, James shrugged. "You left the party too soon. And that Druid..." At this he rolled his eyes. "Always interfering."

"What are you talking about?" John hissed. He tried not to look wildly around the room but he couldn't help his emotions. His heart was beating so hard and fast that he was panting.

"Oh so you don't remember? The Golem? Coming down to the BASEMENT?" James shrieked the last word and John flinched as if physically attacked.

"I don't know what...what you're talking about..." John felt the fear rolling off himself and tried to remain calm but the knife, the knife was sharp looking and dangerous and the look in James' eyes was anything but comforting.

"DO try to remember, Johnny. The basement? The Golem? I so hate to repeat myself. Why, the last time I saw you, you were laying in a pool of blood, dying."

"D...d..dying?" John asked. He had backed up and was now solid against the wall of windows in Sherlock's turret room.

"Yes, Johnny. DYING. Rhymes with CRYING. And you'll be doing plenty of that with this knife. SO will Sherlock. Sherlock will be crying buckets and buckets and nobody...NOBODY (and John cringed because this maniac was yelling) can save you!"

"Oh I wouldn't be too sure of that. Hello Brother."

Sherlock stood at the door, weaving a bit, hair wild and encompassing his face like a horizontal halo, but upright and coherent just the same. John could have cried at the sight.

"Sherlock!" John moved as if to go around the room and avoid James, but the other man was quick and caught John around his waist holding the knife blade flush against the bare skin at John's throat. Sherlock growled audibly.

"Let. Him. Go. Your fight is with me, not him." Sherlock took a step forward.

"Oh Sherlock if you move one more step, I swear I will kill him." And James tightened the blade, drawing a trickle of blood down John's neck. "You and me. We have unfinished business."

"Yes. But he has nothing to do with it. You tried to destroy him and us once. It didn't work so why don't you just fight me, man to man, Mage to Mage." Sherlock's voice was calm but the steel under his words were apparent.

"I want to give you a present, Sherlock. I wonder what colour an Elf's blood is when they are gutted." James drew the knife down and across John's stomach. Sherlock looked on, sick and shaking but knowing he had to do something if it was already too late was it too late he heard John moan and fall down from James' grip and then there were the 2 of them.

Brother to Brother.

Mage to Mage.

A Fight To The Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!!! More to come! I cannot leave Sherlock and James fighting over John's body!!!


	23. No Light No Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Epic Smackdown Ensues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some stories write themselves. This is one of them.

John wasn't sure he was dying but he felt very strange. When he went to move, to try and help Sherlock, a pain gripped his middle. The Elf pressed his hands against his stomach and pulled them away then, examining them closely. Blood stained the palms of his hands and his fingers. He smelled the scent of the coppery smelling liquid in the air. His blood. His life draining away. James had cut him but how deep, he thought frantically. How deeply did the madman cut him? And more importantly, how was his Sherlock, who looked and acted slightly still drugged, to defeat the crazy third brother?

Trying to stand up, John was met with a weird type of gapping feeling in his stomach. He placed his hands over his middle and registered somewhere that his shirt was wet. He tried to concentrate on Sherlock who was now standing in the doorway to his bedroom, weaving a bit unsteadily. But James was within grasping distance, so John attempted to grab at those legs, only to be met by a vicious kick to his shoulder, one that sent him reeling back against the bookshelf. The breath escaped him and he felt a tightness in his abdomen. Could he die here? Die in plain sight of his love, his Mage, the man who captivated him with those beautiful eyes and intelligence? John felt a sob escape from his panting open mouth but neither man looked his way. They were slowly circling each other, hands at their sides.

John thought that the first thing he needed to do was to stop the bleeding. Stop the flow of blood as it took his life, his thoughts, his energies, his existence.

"John!"

Struggling to sit up, John focused on Sherlock in front of him now, shielding him from James who was somehow on the other side of the small fighting circle that the men had created. John realized dully that the door to the bedroom was shut and he wondered if that was the noise he had hears seconds before.

"Sherlock?" John began to crawl towards Sherlock but saw the tall Mage was still moving around, standing on his tip toes and then down again like a fighter. John bent down towards the floor and willed his blood to stop flowing. The room was indeed getting a bit darker and he was shivering, teeth chattering just enough.

"BOOK!" Sherlock whirled towards his bookshelf and just as suddenly a medical tome dropped down and planted itself, spine pressed open and pages firmly against John's stomach, stemming the flow of blood. John nodded somewhat stupidly. He knew in the back of his mind he had lost a lot of blood but the book felt warm and secure and he propped himself up against the book shelf as another book fell and somehow covered his shivering form with pages that were warm and thick. Soon another joined that one and then another until John was covered in books and leaning back, eyes closed to a slit trying to struggle to stay conscious and help Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the drug in his system. It made him logy and drowsy but he pressed on. He knew John was hurt and it enraged him that someone like James could hurt his Elf. The rage and the anger made him sharper and he focused on that, bringing it up so he could turn it around in his mind, trying to rid himself of the drug that the doctor gave him.

"You're not well, Sherlock. Dr. Moffat gave you the sedative..." James said in a mocking tone. He saw Sherlock's reaction--the clenched fists, the set line of his expressive mouth. "You're feeling sleepy. Why don't you lay beside John and give in to the sandman, Sherlock?"

"Why don't you go FUCK YOURSELF!" Sherlock growled and screamed all at once, throwing himself at his brother, fists raised, anger coursing through him like a rush. It gave him power and energy that overrode the drug that threatened to bring him to his knees. Sherlock had stumbled upstairs like a drunk man, shaking the grip of his brother, waving his finger and uttering a spell that would put them under for a while as he faced his brother James in Sherlock's own bedroom. Seemed fitting somehow that James had risen from the depths of his Below to threaten the very fibre of Sherlock's life. Sherlock glanced at John, now leaning against the bookshelf that stretched across the stone walls; the Elf was buried under a cavalcade of messy books but the blood flow from his wound was staunched and for that, Sherlock was grateful.

"Why? Because I am not good enough to find a doxie like that dull Elf there? Oh Sherlock. You're so pedestrian to settle for him. Where's your joie de vivre?" James lunged then withdrew, chuckling to himself at Sherlock's late reaction. "Oh and you so drugged to the gills. Really isn't fair is it? Me fighting you when you're not really able to defend yourself."

"I am perfectly able to defend myself and my family and more besides." Sherlock lunged and it was James' turn to flinch, making Sherlock's Cupid bowed lips quirk up in a smile.

"Ooo, Sherlock. We can't you have you winning." James reared back and threw his arms up, hands outstretched. Sherlock tried to duck but the bolts of energy hit him squarely in his chest, causing him to fall backwards and almost to the floor. It hurt, no doubt about that, and with that pain came a kind of realization that he was indeed operating on a picnic that was short a few sandwiches.

"Bastard! You tried to kill me when we were kids! With the kites!!" Sherlock found himself rallying with those bitter memories. He felt a hand on his arm and was grateful for his Elf's confidence. "Now it's your turn. You need to go away forever!!"

Sherlock sprang up and tackled James. The 2 fell to the floor, rolling over and over, arms and fists flailing as they hit each other in raw anger. Sherlock deflected some of the punches but others James threw fell on their intended target, splitting his lip and hurting his ribs. But to Sherlock's satisfaction, Sherlock also got some good hits on James and the older man rolled and groaned, none of the insults flying from his mouth now.

Losing the fight, James drew his one leg back and kicked Sherlock squarely in the throat, making the Mage stumble and fall back to the floor, hand within reach of John, who quickly laced his fingers through Sherlock's hand. The feel of his Elf's hand made Sherlock gain strength although the blow that James had inflicted had hurt and was still hurting. James was also advancing and as he reached down to grab Sherlock by the lapels, Sherlock tried to struggle free but the blow along with the drug that was affecting him (unfortunetly) made the Mage weak enough that James could pick the slender man up and throw him back against the far wall. John attempted to stand but the books stubbornly held him in place.

Sherlock was panting as he slid down on to the floor. James was coming closer and closer like a calculating spider, a sinister grin on his twisted face. He stopped with one foot holding Sherlock to the floor, gradually increasing the pressure on Sherlock's chest until the Mage was wheezing with the effort to breathe.

"I should have been rid of you years ago, Little Brother," James said, spitting out the words. "You always were the favourite, born under the blood moon. Such a 'GOOD" baby. Always the apple of Mummy's eye." James brought a groan from the struggling mage but kept the pressure on Sherlock's chest with his foot. "Still alive though. Tsk. Not for long though. And when you die, rest assured I will have some fun with Johnny Boy." Sherlock growled low in his throat and almost succeeded in getting away but James sensed the spur for freedom and with a lightning fast slash, sliced open a fresh cut on Sherlock's arm that started to bleed copiously. "How did that feel, Sherlock?"

"You will never defeat me."

"Blood moon, Sherlock. Lunaza rhier, remember? Not so strong are you? You pathetic piece of shit." James grabbed Sherlock's lapels again and raised him up, impressively strong for being shorter than Sherlock, but lifting him nonetheless. With a wave of his hand, the windows opened behind them and Sherlock was forced hard against the stone sill. Somewhere in the distance John was yelling and struggling to stand but the books held him fast. James glanced over his shoulder and smirked then threw Sherlock hard towards the open window so that the upper half of the Mage was held over the open air. Far below, the river twisted around through the rocky channel.

Sherlock tried to fight back but the drug was now set in his body and making him even more sluggish. Every little movement felt like a weight was upon him and no matter how hard he tried to get out of James' grip, nothing was working. His arms and legs were lead. He could barely speak. Was he going to die? It wasn't supposed to end like this. He and John were to have a wonderful life together, and Sherlock had planned to wed the Elf in front of his parents and brother and people of the kingdom.

"Goodbye Sherlock." James picked up Sherlock's legs and with a flip, threw the Mage over the window sill to the rocks and river below.

John gasped as he realized that Sherlock was gone. He tried to struggle against the book, in particular the heavy tome that laid upon his chest and stomach, but they held fast. James turned and focused his laser like stare at John as the corners of his mouth quirked up.

"I should have skinned you alive down Below, John. Dear John. Sweet John. You don't remember the Golem, do you? You think that Sherlock was your only, your first, your lover. Oh no. Sorry, Johnny." James' face was a combination of crazy and quirky sarcasm. John felt the bile rise in his throat as James advanced. He was almost within arm's length when suddenly there was a whoosh behind them.

John turned and his blue eyes widened in surprise. James saw his look and paused, inches away from touching the trembling Elf. What could possibly be happening now? He had got rid of his meddling brother. There was no way anyone, not even a Mage, James thought, could survive that straight down fall. What was the Elf's problem anyways?

"You had better be ready for another round," John chided.

"Really? Why now? What are YOU going to do?" James knelt and grabbed John's arm hard enough for the Elf to cry out in pain. "Oh yell, There's more where that comes from."

"Let. Go. Of. JOHN!"

Like an avenging angel, dressed in a rumpled suit splattered with blood,  Sherlock was coming through the window entwined in the leafy branches of the vines that grew wild along the sides of the palace. He was holding on to one of the branches as it swung him into the room and behind James and with a quick sideways motion, Sherlock cut the throat of his brother tormentor and pulled the bleeding body away from his Elf.

"Sherlock...Sherlock..." It was only then that the books moved away, all but the medical tome that had stopped John's wound from bleeding. John held out his arms and Sherlock moved into them quickly, cradling his Elf against his chest and murmuring his love with nonsense words into the smaller man's hair. "I thought...I thought you were dead...when he threw you through the window..."

"My darling Elf. How could I ever leave you?" Sherlock kissed the John's neck and cheeks. "Now then. Let's see about your wound."

"Hurts," John whispered grimacing as Sherlock moved the book away.

"I imagine it does." Sherlock frowned as he saw the blood that had pooled like a rust stain on John's shirt. "Hold still. Let me heal you."

|"You can do that?" John asked, laying back and allowing Sherlock full access to his wound. There was a warmth on his skin that increased substantially as Sherlock continued to run a long finger along the gaping slash. He heard the words --aloud or in his head--and at once Sherlock was still. John took a deep breath and felt healed. "Did you...are you.."

"I am done, John." Sherlock leaned against John and sighed heavily. He was tired to his bones and he wished that his brother Mycroft could come up and help them. He did not have the strength or the will to get up and stumble down the stairs to remove the spell he had placed on everyone in John's room, and now he wished that he had not done that and accepted their help, even though deep down he knew that this epic battle was his and his alone to fight. James was gone. James was dead and bleeding out feet from both of them. Instinctively, Sherlock tried to hide John's face from seeing James' body but the Elf pulled against him and stood up, swaying but upright.

"I will help you downstairs, Sherlock. Together we will get help so you can rest. I wasn't the only one who was cut." John knelt down and ripped off his shirt, then pressed it tightly to Sherlock's bleeding wound. With a direct look at the medical tome that had helped him in his time of need, John tried to will it to help Sherlock. The Mage chuckled and twitched a finger and the tome fairly flew onto his slash. "How did you do that?"

"Oh you know....looks for books."

"Git." Suddenly John sobered and stared at the lifeless body of Sherlock's brother. "What about him? You won't want to stay here after this will you?"

"There will be a thorough clean up, John. And I will see to it that I spend plenty of time in your room."

"The red moon...that you mentioned..."

"What about it?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"It was tonight."

"Yes. A time of strength and a time of change. It's over, John. Now we move on."

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

3 Days later found Sherlock and John sitting on a bench in the royal gardens. Sherlock was studying the bees flying about their hives in the southern corner while John was idly sketching the blooms that were in full splendor. Both were quiet, enjoying the comfortable peace between them. As promised, Sherlock's room had been thoroughly cleaned and James' body had been cremated, his ashes blessed and sealed away in a crypt on the far end of the palace grounds. It had been a sobering thought to see his brother reduced to that, and Sherlock could not help but feel somewhat guilty that he could not help the twisted genius that had been driven mad with jealousy and anger.

"So. You're single. I'm single." John hummed happily. He risked an askance glance at Sherlock who was jotting things down in a stained and messy notebook that perched on his lap.

"No."

"What do you mean no? I'm not married."

"Not yet, John. Oh, hold still. There's a drone on your arm." Sherlock leaned close to the Elf and brushed John's tanned skin of his neck with teasing lips.

"A drone? A bee?" John stood up suddenly breaking the mood, shaking his arm and then rubbing it, looking around wildly for the offending bee.

"John!" Sherlock also stood and grabbed his hand. "Scared of a bee?"

"Well, I don't like being stung if that's what you're asking. I'd rather not be nursing a sting."

"Mmmmm you are beautiful, my Elf. I can see your nipple rings through your shirt. Very fetching." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and nuzzled John's ear, breath hot and moist. John wiggled feeling the effect to his groin.

"Well if I had had a choice, I wouldn't have exactly had them pierced you know."

"Quit grousing, John. Just enjoy my kisses."

And the Elf turned his head up to receive many kisses on his lips and they stood joined together until tea was served.


End file.
